


The Wishing Maiden

by RRHood



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Consent Issues, F/F, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Style, Fantasy, Femslash, Multi, Non-Explicit Sex, One-Sided Attraction, Original Character Death(s), Poetry, Romance, Tragedy, Tragic Romance, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 12:39:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 50,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5928862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RRHood/pseuds/RRHood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is said that the Wishing Maiden is locked away. It is said that the Wishing Maiden grants any and every wish that she hears.</p>
<p>Jacquotte seeks nothing more than adventure...and the power-hungry dreamer, Prince Caietanus, is determined to have all he desires, no matter what the cost. It just so happens that their wants overlap.</p>
<p>Caught up in the search for the legendary Wishing Maiden, Jacquotte and her cunning band set out on a journey in which they face the desperate, the jealous, and the greedy - both at the point of a sword, and in their own reflections.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_ Prologue: Act I, scene i _

 

 

“ _If I could have any wish,_

_I’d wish that I could wed a prince;_

_Be happy every moment since,_

_The dearest wish that I have.”_

-          The shop girl’s lament.

 

 

***

 

What started as a rumor sparked into legend, and over the course of a few years, legend had come to be accepted as the undeniable truth.

It was said that the Wishing Maiden, herself, was a sight to behold.

It was said that she had been locked away many years ago, either by someone with a selfish heart who wanted to keep her power for themselves, or by some other unknown magic.

It was said that she would happily wed the man to free her from captivity.

Most important of all – it was said, and it was known, that the Wishing Maiden would grant any and every wish that she heard.

She could turn a commoner to a prince – a prince, to a king. She could bury the poorest orphan in more gold than could be conceived. She could fulfill the wildest dreams of any individual, be they innocent, fleeting fancies, or a maddening hunger that kept the fantasist awake at night.

Jacquotte’s every dream had already come true; she had no need of a Wishing Maiden.

At least, so she thought.

 

***

 

The subtle scrape of dirt may as well have been the trumpeting of a horn, as it signified the slip of Lyall’s sole before he tumbled, taking the entirety of their traveling supplies with him. The soft leather flap of the bag flipped, allowing their rations to roll through the dust.

Four pairs of unimpressed eyes were suddenly bearing down on him, and he felt perfectly justified in breaking into a sweat, fluorescent face shining like the sun…if the sun had been painted over with a bright shade of red.

Quick, narrow fingers could only salvage so much. Those nimble hands, however, were not possessed by Lyall. Sly had crouched, his slit-narrow eyes giving a wax-wheel of cheese a long once-over before he brushed away the pebbles that had encrusted themselves into the malleable surface.

“This is still good,” he declared, then turned his attention to a loaf of bread. “This…will just need a good dusting, I think…”

“Disgusting,” a hulking figure came up from behind the sneak, muscled arms coming down and giving a deceptively light tap to the back of Sly’s head. For all the muscle, Bron could be a soft touch, though such a thing was rare…only because it was never on purpose. A gentle strike was a happy accident; Lyall treasured those times, and his bruised arms tended to thank her for them.

“I’ll pay for replacements, myself,” still half-frantic with guilt, he hastened to pack away what Sly deemed ‘still good’, tucking things hurriedly into the bag.

“Too right you will,” came the fluty, nasal voice which wore on his nerves until it cut right through. Grete’s moneybags were so heavy that she walked with an involuntary swagger, hips swaying in a kind of caricature in order to keep the weight moving. Grete’s coats were always long, as though hiding the bags from sight would trick anyone who looked at her into thinking she was misshapen. The jingling of cold, hard gold shattered that image like a hammer against glass.

Eyes of brown, blue, and green, all looking upon him with disdain. Still, it was the way _she_ had looked away, utterly dismissive, gaze flickering over the horizon in search of excitement…that was the stare that hurt the most, for Jacquotte had never once looked at him with that faraway longing. That excitement.

Their ringleader, their eye of the hurricane; Jacquotte’s wishes only ever extended as far as the next adventure, in love with the excitement that came with violence and passion and events. The monotony of everyday life was not a comfort in which she would wallow.

 

As long as Lyall had known her, she was as untamable and uncatchable as the wind, and he adored it.

She was the reason he had abandoned his simple future as a farmer. He had found her, one morning after one of the fiercest storms he had ever seen; strong, radiant, and naked as the day she was born. Her soaked clothing had been draped over barrels of hay – they would rot with mold, after absorbing the rainwater – and all she had kept in her sleep was a saber in her hand and the band keeping her vibrant red hair from spilling over her face and shoulders.

She was the most ferociously peaceful sight Lyall had ever laid eyes on, and for those first few moments, he had been utterly convinced that he was looking upon a goddess.

Then she had woken up, slashed the belt of his trousers, and smugly made off with everything he owned.

Without meaning to, she also left town with a devoted, starry-eyed man at her heels, willing to put up with the extra company so long as he could remain at her side…and the Red Quartet, which was spoken of in many places, became a Quintet instead.

 

***

 

 

“ _If any wish of mine were made,_

_I’d be a dashing renegade._

_Cut down villains by my blade!_

_The dearest wish that I have.”_

-          The drunkard’s lament.

 

 

***

 

“A good deal of our rations, gone to waste… No way of doubling back without inciting a riot and being thrown into prison… What are we to do, now?”

Grete’s displeasure made her voice spike in volume, causing Lyall to flinch and a secretive kind of amusement to pass over Jacquotte’s face.

“We keep on West,” Sly suggested, polishing dust off the surface of a bun using his shirt. Despite the money-weighted girl’s obvious revulsion, he picked some of the crust, gave it a thorough inspection, and put it on his tongue.

“We’ll reach the harbor towns,” Bron mused. “I suppose we could get passage across the sea…”

“Where are we most likely to wind up?” Jacquotte looked back over her shoulder, gaze landing on Sly. He raised a hand, indicating he was still in the midst of chewing. As the most well-traveled, glancing over a map usually fell to him, in terms of duties.

“Most ships dock in the Capital of Felicitie,” he didn’t bother withdrawing any navigational tool, knowing well enough already. “Dull place, very rich. Plenty of unsuspecting people.”

His fingers twitched as he spoke, catching the notice of glimmering green and bright hazel; Grete had broken into a pleased smile, while Jacquotte looked considerably less excited, despite knowing by that look that their destination could turn a profit.

 

Grete had been the one to start off Sly’s obsession.

He had always wavered on the line between ‘stubborn jackass’ and ‘impressionable youth’ – his days of clowning and juggling on street corners had helped him retain some of his boyishness, or so he claimed. The mischievous urges of a child, however, had grown up as he did, and it thus took very little prompting to dip in and out of blacker morality.

Those deep pockets had posed a challenge. Sly was accustomed to slipping through streets, easing valuable trinkets and ropes of gold and silver out of satchels and off a lady’s slender neck – no street-jester could be called trustworthy, but he wore the guise of an innocent so well that he hadn’t been caught once. Not for certain, anyhow.

There had been an incident at the gentleman’s den, in which one of the fancy ladies had wildly accused him of trying to sneak off with her earrings.

He hadn’t touched her earrings. It was her garters that he’d made off with, but they hadn’t been able to prove it.

Then, Grete had come along; not what he’d ever thought of as conventionally pretty, with that flyaway pixie-cut hair and a boyishly skinny figure…but those enormous moneybags hanging from her belt, swishing with a seductive clink, beckoned him close with a ‘come hither’ sway. He had palmed a few gold pieces, and stolen away to the local inn for a celebratory round or two.

Sly had failed to expect that the narrow-faced brunette would have an enviable mind. She knew, to the exact piece-count and the precise weight of each one, how much gold she had on her person, at every single moment.

When she had pressed the sharp end of her skinny knife nearly up his nose and promised to gore out the grey matter unless he returned every last gold piece, Sly made himself a vow.

One, he would never love another woman, so long as Grete lived.

Two, he would outfox her if it was the last thing he ever did; her calculating memory, pitted against his quick hands and self-control to take just enough.

Ever since, he had tweaked and perfected his art, and could confidently say that there was no better pick-pocket to be found in all the country.

 

***

 

 

“ _If any wish of ours came true -”_

“ _I’d say adieu.”_

“ _We would be through.”_

“ _I wish that I always knew,_

_The dearest wish that we have.”_

-          The unhappy couple’s lament.

 

 

***

 

“No ship would make port anywhere _else_ , would they?” Plainly, heading to Felicitie wasn’t an appealing prospect to Jacquotte. The fact that she hadn’t outright rejected the proposition meant she was at least giving it thought; she never waffled for the sake of appeasing the rest of the group, knowing that when it came right down to it, she had the final say.

No one would argue with her, and while oftentimes the remaining three looked to the broad-shouldered blonde to persuade Jacquotte to change her tune, it was not through any sort of intimidation that Bron ever managed it. In fact, she rarely _did_ manage to change Jacquotte’s mind.

So long as there was still room for argument, though, she found that both Sly and Grete were giving her surreptitious pleading looks.

“There would be no need to stay in the city for long,” Bron reasoned. “We arrive, we drink, we create a stir. Then we move on to towns of more interest. Either way, we’ve seen enough of this continent…”

“I suppose so.”

“That’s almost Jacquotte’s way of calling it a brilliant idea! I often forget you’re more than dumb muscle,” one of Sly’s hands ran down the blonde plait in a falsely flirtatious manner.

Had any other done such a thing, their hand would have been easily broken; it was a sign of the camaraderie between the five of them that she merely twisted his arm, rather than snapping it.

 

Bron boasted the strength of ten men. She had always said that she’d be damned before she let a man get the better of her, and to her credit, she had not been condemned to Hell just yet. When the other girls her age were learning to bake and to sew, Bron was hauling flour and pails of water, carrying one on each arm as she trekked over hills and fields to get back home.

They knew of her in the surrounding towns, somewhat infamously; occasionally, with ever-increasing frequency, Bron would have walked to the next town over with two empty pails, lower them into their well, and walk the extra mile back home – all for the simple reason that she wanted to build her strength.

It came as no surprise to anyone when she was finally hauled before the law and charged with theft.

For all her muscle, Bron could have presented herself as dumb, but it was wit that kept her from the gallows. She argued for her right to trial…and when that failed, she argued for her right to duel. Her crime, she claimed, was being challenged as a woman; she had the law vow, to her, that she would die taking up that challenge in one final bid for glory.

Notices were sent to the four corners of the Earth (or so they claimed) – a beckoning towards every man who thought himself a warrior, daring them to match her in brute strength.

They were not fair bouts, when the entertainment begun. The men were permitted helmets and armor; Bron was not. That did not stop her from throwing every competitor to the ground, landing a harsh blow to the head, and – in often cases – denting the flimsy metal in the process of knocking them unconscious.

Then came _that one_ . Every man beforehand had simply grappled with her, tried to overpower and throw her to the ground. _That one_ was clever. _That one_ did no such thing. It was finesse that defeated Bron, not power, and when she fell, the lawman tossed that one a saber and declared that she could be killed, now. She had been bested; her dignity was lost.

Instead, Jacquotte had removed her helmet, given them all a cocky tilt of her lips, and helped Bron back up to her feet. Somewhere – to the side, where Bron could not see – Grete tossed some kind of stone into the middle of the crowd, which produced such thick, black smoke that Bron could scarcely breathe.

Before she knew it, they were one town away.

“I’ve always wanted to be a strong girl like you. I would settle for having a strong girl by my side, instead.”

Ever since, Bron was always at Jacquotte’s right hand, wielding strength to balance their ringleader’s sword.

 

***

 

 

“ _She could realize all our dreams,_

_There, the light of our hope gleams –_

_But she is gone, or so it seems,_

_So die the wishes we have._

 

_She is not gone forever, though,_

_And so we will search high and low._

_The Wishing Maiden lives, we know,_

_So hear the wishes we have.”_

-          The townspeople’s lament.

 

 

***

 

“Not much choice but to agree, I suppose. I wouldn’t care to hear Grete crying into her sleeves for the next week or two, had I said no,” Jacquotte began to smirk.

Rather than deny it, the other girl ran her hands down the sides of her moneybags, nearly caressing in a way that bordered on inappropriate. With a sweet smile, she said, “You’ll find yourself amused there, no doubt. You can gamble with Sly over how many pockets can be picked before their law enforcement notices…!”

“You’re assuming I don’t get bored in the process of waiting and start overturning their market.”

“I know you,” Grete snorted. “It will take even _you_ a little while to get that bored.”

 

Since they were both little girls, Grete could never have enough. Jacquotte knew this; however, she never cared the same way Grete did. While she had no qualms with indulging her every plan, from ludicrous to commonplace, Jacquotte’s focus was on the sheer enjoyment of taking on the task. It had opened rifts between them, in the past; when Jacquotte’s recklessness meant something slipped through Grete’s fingers, her fury could not be restrained. Likewise, when Grete coerced the fiery eye of the hurricane into something monotonous for no better reason than ‘profit’, the money-mongering weasel would often turn around and find that Jacquotte had abandoned her for more entertaining things.

They butted heads like rams at war, until the danger reached a boiling point or their likes aligned. An intriguing whirlwind with a windfall of gold to follow; that was what they liked best, and those fond times were what managed to keep them together. Through thick and through thin, they would drift back into the other’s company…even though the thin of it bored them both to tears, and never lasted very long.

As it stood, right then, Grete had not a single regret, and she knew (deep down, and she would never say it aloud) that she had Jacquotte and her risk-taking to thank for it.

 

***

 

 

“ _Somebody find her!_

_Catch, capture, and bind her!_

_She will serve_

_All we deserve,_

_The dearest wishes we have!_

 

_Someone go and find her!_

_Break her bones or blind her!_

_Whatever it takes_

_To ease our aches,_

_And grant the wish that I –”_

-          The townspeople’s cry.

 

 

***

 

Jacquotte had never meant to have the things she did. In truth, she had never cared for a single object; the companionship was appreciated, the gold eased their way, but ultimately… Nothing mattered.

All she craved was a breeze to tangle her hair, a whole host of interesting stories from her past to tell over a pint, and untold opportunity lying ahead of her.

Those wishes, she had granted, herself.

She hadn’t realized how much more there was to wish for.

 

Upon reaching the harbor town, they ‘played nice’ long enough to barter cheap passage on a supply vessel. Felicitie, apparently, had much that couldn’t be found on their own continent, and trade was of vital importance to them. They would go quickly, with no stops along the way – the ideal sort of voyage, for Jacquotte would find herself restless with nothing to stare at but waves and sky for days on end. They would not be opposed, they said, to taking a few extra bodies across the sea.

So they allowed the five to board, set out at dawn the next morning, and they had arrived in the capital city before the week was out.

The Kingdom of Felicitie was where all the stories of the Wishing Maiden had come from; it was there, they were all so certain, that she could one day be found.

 

***

 

 

“ _Bring her back,_

_For all I lack –_

_I’ll get the wishes I have!”_

-          The townspeople’s demand.


	2. Chapter I

_ Chapter I; Act I, scene ii _

 

 

Felicitie, as a Kingdom, had never struggled for want of anything. A proud, wide-spread land built from nothing but beach and forest, settled on the continent of Desidrius only a century ago. It was young, as places went, but was reputed far and wide as a place of peace and prosperity. The farmland edged the capital city’s borders, as well as the farther borders of the kingdom, itself – given the size of the land and how far those boundaries seemed to stretch on for, it was no small thing, and even the poor never seemed to go hungry. Fresh-water lakes were spattered here and there, and rivers splintered out from them every which way, commonplace and keeping nature and man well nourished. There was bread for all, fruit and meat never wasted, and herbs to taste grew as quickly as weeds.

The cities and towns they’d built matched the splendor they’d been given to build upon – great architects had sailed over the ocean, or so the stories went, and built the castle from glittering slate stone upon a man-made hill. One would have thought it was open to attack from the water, as it had been built right at the ocean’s edge, but the fortress walls were so high and thick that there was never any worry. There had never been a cause for concern, to begin with; Felicitie was like the beloved youngest child on an Earth with many children.

Some had given credit where it was due; the settlers, and to nature, for having come to a peaceful cooperation as the land was built upon and docks constructed.

Others who hoped to fall into favor with the royal family often praised their ruler, Prince Caietanus, as though he had any sort of direct impact on the world around them.

And then – of course – there were those who claimed that the Wishing Maiden had blessed them. They would tell anyone who would listen that, some time ago, she had been _here_ . She had granted the wish of one noble soul, who had desired nothing more than to live prosperously, and in peace alongside his neighbor. It was proof, or so they claimed, that the Wishing Maiden _lived_ , and was liable to someday return.

As rumor and mania might do, the wild thanks of a few caught on to many. Balthazar was an intelligent man – notoriously quick, with a mind like a steel trap, and his tendency to keep an ear to the ground was what made him so very valuable to Caietanus. Hence, he was nearly able to time it to the very last second; when the news that the peasants were putting more stock in a girl of myth than their own prince, he didn’t take it well.

“Ridiculousness. A short stop from here to treason. Ungrateful, that is _precisely_ what they are, and when the mutiny comes, I’ll conscript those believers and put them on the front lines…!”

“Yes, my Lord,” Balthazar intonated. Caietanus was all hot air and harshness, at times like these; it was a shame, for during his calmer points, his company could actually be somewhat appealing…in a warped sort of sense, as Balthazar’s ‘enjoyment’ only extended as far as appreciating being left to his own thoughts and not being pulled from his reverie to give half-hearted agreements. There was nothing his prince loathed more intensely than being undermined, though, and the idea that a handful of hopefuls had possibly questioned his rule had sparked him into a fiery rage.

‘ _Not that this wasn’t a long time coming.’_

His ‘rule’ had been the most relaxed one since his father, before him…and his grandfather, before even that. Life had been so simple, in Felicitie, that most of his days were spent on pursuits of leisure and the occasional hands-off sort of judgment when disputes could not be settled by the lawmen.

“I ought to have them all rounded up and brought before me, on their knees,” he was scowling, pale eyes glittering with a sort of malice. Balthazar could have plucked them from his head, he thought, and worn them for diamonds – or sapphires, perhaps, in the right light.

Caietanus had been born fortunate, as all the men in his bloodline before him had seemed to be. Another product of a wish, so the stories went; his grandfather’s father, a settler, coaxed his desire from the fabled Maiden, and became the perfect man. Eyes that spoke wisdom, hair of rich gold, a chiseled jaw and high cheekbones – the kind a sculptor may have given him, were the hands of an artist the ones to make him. Caietanus, the elder folk said, looked much like his great-grandfather from way-back-when, and the portraits around the throne room seemed to agree.

Those looks were disarming, Balthazar reflected bitterly. One could so easily look at him and forget that beneath the good looks and confident smile, there was nothing but bluster and a dangerous sort of arrogance.

“What do you think, Balthazar?”

‘ _I think very little of all you say, so no, my Lord. You are a violent fool.’_

“Yes, my Lord. Shall I call for the lawmen? Have them investigate?”

“No,” Caietanus sniped at him, throwing one arm outward to send the heavy cloth draped over his shoulders fluttering outward. He lowered himself slowly into his seat, propping his smooth cheek against his glove while the opposite hand rapped a quiet, contemplative beat against his thigh.

He was calming down. A very good thing; had he told Balthazar to act on his anger, he would have had no choice but to do so. If anything would have prompted an uprising, it would have been _that_.

Perhaps that wouldn’t be such a terrible thing, but Balthazar would have needed some time to align pieces on the board, and he very much doubted he would have been given that time. With his luck, a rebellion would take place and he would take up the position of Royal Advisor for the _next_ half-cocked, spoiled child to wrestle his way onto the throne…

“No… This requires a gentle touch,” the prince mused, annoyance still burning at his words like hot coals. “Their beloved _Maiden_ would have a gentle touch, would she not? That’s a characteristic of all women.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Subtlety, subtlety,” he huffed, wide chest puffing up as he breathed deeply in contemplation. As Balthazar once again expected, his attempts to calm himself only lasted for so long before he snapped, “Well? Balthazar, you are my advisor. _Advise me_.”

“Of course, my Lord…”

‘ _And how would you have me do that? Is there a way to penetrate that thick skull, and you merely neglected to inform me as to how to go about it?’_

Balthazar took careful, deliberate steps away from Caietanus – his thinking often got muddled, the closer to him he stood, be it due to loathing or something only a step away from it – and gave his thin, chestnut beard a few strokes, miming the process of thought while, in truth, his mind wandered to other things.

A fool could see (not just any fool, though, it seemed) that Caietanus would never inspire real faith in his people without doing something drastic, in his reign. Something to bond his people; a cause. The sadist in him gleefully proposed a war – mobilizing an entire nation, rallying them in times of hardship, was that not what stories of true, great kings were made of?

He would be the first royal in seven generations, though, to take his people into battle. Were war more common, perhaps, then there would be cause to think it a good course of action.

What he _needed_ to do was far simpler. Simply showing his people the good he was capable of…walking among them, giving each of them a chance to feel as though they ‘knew’ their prince… It was simple, obvious, and effective.

Thick eyebrows, which had been knit together as true thought had overtaken him as he’d mimed it, relaxed, and he tried to have the rest of his face follow.

“My Lord, if you were to-…”

“Bring them their Wishing Maiden,” Caietanus nearly spat, but the glow to his face made it evident that he thought he had come up with a brilliant idea, one to solve everything. “Of course…”

Balthazar bit down on the inside of his cheek.

“Yes, my Lord.”

“If I join with this Maiden – she is said to be a legendary beauty, anyway, is she not?”

“I believe so, my Lord,” Balthazar had to fight to keep his tone measured, despite the white-hot spike being rammed through his chest.

“There isn’t a single poor point to this. She would grant every desire I voice – I could rule indefinitely, with this Maiden at my side. Or in a cell, if she proves impudent… As her rescuer, though, she would be ingratiated to me, would she not?”

If Caietanus noted the grit of Balthazar’s teeth, he didn’t indicate as such. “I am sure, my Lord. Once again, your wit outstrips my own.”

“I do wonder what I even keep you for,” there was a smug tilt to his full lips.

‘ _To say yes. Heaven forbid you employ me for any other reason than to stroke your ego; if you ever listened to a word I said, I may die of shock-…’_

“It would just be a matter of finding her,” Caietanus had risen again from his throne, pacing as he was before, but this time without the tension to his gait. “I haven’t the time to do so myself, and to leave Felicitie…that invites disaster. My people cannot get by, without me here.”

Laziness. Another trait he did so detest, in the prince.

…A trait he could manipulate.

“My Lord…why not have _me_ handle this affair _for_ you?” Balthazar caught him by the shoulder briefly. Within an instant, he had retracted his hand as though burned, for his own benefit; laying a hand on the prince never proved helpful, for his thought process. “I will find someone to go. Someone who would not be…” he hesitated, “…tempted, by the Wishing Maiden’s _gift_. There is sure to be someone capable of resisting.”

Caietanus dusted off his shoulder, where he was touched, but he did not say anything against it. His mood must have vastly improved, indeed. “Hm. I suppose you do prove useful, once in a blue moon,” he said carelessly.

Excitement, barely contained, was beginning to crawl down Balthazar’s throat and nestle into his chest. With an ease he had practice in forcing, he continued, “I could go, myself, if you desire, my Lord.”

“That would not be acceptable. What would I do without you here?” the prince laughed, but it was clearly false.

‘ _Damnation.’_

That only complicated things…slightly.

“I prefer you at my side, for your rare good ideas. I certainly wouldn’t want to miss one of them.”

Balthazar ignored the sting to his pride, for it had been punctured so thoroughly over the years it could have been mistaken for a pincushion, had it any sort of physical form.

“Nevertheless, my Lord, I will find you the perfect candidate to go forth and find the Wishing Maiden. When she is delivered to us, I guarantee you…no finer King will sit upon your throne,” he sank to one knee before Caietanus, pausing him in his pacing.

‘… _And by the gods, I will have you at my feet, like this, before you can even say the words, “I wish.”’_

 

***

 

_ Scene iii _

 

The entirety of the market at the docks was aflutter. With the amount of ships that made port in Felicitie – be they passing by, or trading boats laden with exotic goods the people of the city adored – hardly anything could cause a stir, anymore, save for utter catastrophe.

To a populace unused to anything more boisterous than a few rough drunkards getting into a quarrel, the logical thing to do was to send for the lawmen the moment things became rowdy. When a fight had ensued, most chose to flee – a few stubborn merchants had stood their ground, refused to retreat further into the city, and simply ducked behind their stalls.

They didn’t last very much longer, however, when first blood was drawn, and Lyall gently recommended to one or two that they might stand a better chance (them, _and_ their wares) if they cut their losses, packed their things, and fled to the safety of their homes. They seemed to decide that he knew better, and were gone before anyone could be slain.

The fact that no one _had_ died was the startling factor, and as such, Jacquotte had been rather taken aback when she realized so many had fled over what had been, in her opinion, a rather tame tussle.

Such a shame.

“You can take word back to your prince. Tell him that I’m untouchable.”

It hadn’t shocked a single member of the Red Quintet that Jacquotte had determined the docks ‘too dull’ within a single step off the trading ship, _‘The Pandora’_ , and lasted all of an hour before pulling Sly away from the unsuspecting merchant he’d pegged as his next mark.

The weight of Jacquotte’s saber threatened to bring her wrist down just far enough to drive the point into the lawman’s dimpled chin, or so it appeared. It only took a quick sweep of the street to come to the wisest possible conclusion.

Two of his three comrades had been quite handily dealt with by Bron, collapsed at the hulking woman’s feet and definitely unconscious. She had broken a sweat, but that seemed to be as much wear as she’d taken; she was securing her brown shrug back over her shoulders, arms muscled, bare, and easily as thick as her neck. He dearly hoped they hadn’t been so foolish as to take her on one at a time, though by the looks of things, they had done exactly that. One of them was simply unconscious, with bruises starting to take up the entire left side of his face, while the other was a mess of thin cuts.

That had to have been the work of the man with a jester-wide grin, windswept dark hair blown back from his round face. He looked almost babyish, with that boyish smile, and he wouldn’t have taken him for much more than a young lad with a mischievous streak were it not for how handily he was twirling his knives about. Without even giving it a dark-eyed glance, Sly was tossing one of them in the air, letting it spin, and catching it by the handle. Not once had he missed and managed to slice his hand, and considering how little damage he had sustained, it struck the lawman as unfair.

The twiggy little brunette girl was simply flitting about like a fairy, going through every cash box thoughtlessly left behind and counting out gold coins under her breath, while the strapping young man, tanned and broad with his country-boy build, tailed behind her and obligingly carried whatever she shoved into his meaty chest. Neither of them had even had a hand in the fight, but he had a strong feeling they wouldn’t have been any easier to tangle with.

Jacquotte had sent the third of his companions running under threat of impalement, though not before Lyall had given him a considerable dent to the head wielding nothing more threatening than a heavy leather sack, and finally, as for himself-…

Well. There he was, lying on the dusty ground at sword-point.

Standing over him the way she was, he couldn’t recall how or why he’d thought she was weak-looking. Lean and long, like a whip, Jacquotte carried herself with all the grace he expected to see in a woman…and for that, he felt like a fool. The sheath strapped to her hip was in plain view, black belts holding it to her thigh and securing other suspect lengths of leather. More knives, he suspected, but hoped dearly he wouldn’t have cause to find out.

And, perhaps it was the way the sun was crowning her, but the glow to her long red hair made it look as though she had been set aflame – tied away from her face and splaying against the blue sky as the wind blew it off her shoulders, she looked like living fire, dangerous to approach.

Her companions were still taking whatever caught their eye, piling food into the bag Lyall was holding open and having anything with a shine commandeered by Grete. Clear resentment crossed his face, but he still turned his face in a sign of submission and scrambled back when Jacquotte lifted the blade.

“You’re nothing more than thieves,” it seemed that he couldn’t resist attempting to get in the last word, though, before taking off back towards the hilltop castle. Briefly, Jacquotte entertained the idea of hurling her saber towards his retreating back.

There would be no satisfaction in killing him, however, and she thought better of it. Killing was brutish, when unnecessary.

“Drink?” Sly was twirling one of Grete’s thin blades around, juggling it one-handed. The gold-hoarder had yet to notice the theft; likely because it wasn’t precious metal.

“Where did you have in mind?” Jacquotte questioned carelessly, sheathing the sword and turning towards the pickpocket with an expectantly raised eyebrow. “Did you notice a tavern on our way in?”

“A city this big is bound to have one somewhere,” he reached out to clap a hand on Bron’s shoulder. She ignored it, though not before throwing him a brief look of warning, to which he only grinned back, the way a younger brother might when teasing his elder sibling.

“They’re further inland,” Bron sniffed – possibly literally, as her chin jutted and nostrils flared, as though she were trying to scent alcohol on the air. “The last thing a shining kingdom like this one would want is a bunch of drunken sailors.”

“I’d wager you’re right about that, but it’s poor city planning,” Grete’s steps were heavier than normal as she stepped over the fallen lawmen, following the group’s close-knit steps. “Sailors come for the wine and the women. If they were clever, they’d make _that_ their primary industry. Line the docks with brothels and bars – keep their disruption contained, leave the trading ships to their business in the city…”

“Maybe they think a drunken sailor is more likely to drop coin on the streets as they stagger back to their ships?” Lyall suggested.

“If a sailor has any coin remaining after leaving a tavern, then they haven’t stocked enough,” Grete countered, effectively shutting down any other words from him. Sly granted him a look that was made up of more laughter than sympathy, which quickly sank into a more sheepish one when his hand was knocked in a way that nearly made him catch the juggled knife blade-first. Grete’s eyes were narrow as she shoved it back into its compartment, nestled between the heavy pouches on her hips.

Jacquotte turned a deaf ear to their continued squabbles – Grete’s snappish soprano cracking over Sly’s amused wheedling and Lyall’s cowed mumblings. Instead, she took in the view of Felicitie as she walked, shrewd eyes seeking the familiar signs of a place worth staying in.

Lampposts ought to have notices pasted on them, outlining general information such as the faces of the dangerous or offering tempting rewards for those who came to such-and-such a place at such-and-such a time. There ought to have been more people milling about…or, had everyone in the area fled the docks and market at the first sign of violence? Were they all so unused to the sight of a brawl?

Not a promising sign.

That was not to say they were entirely barren, and the single notice that _was_ tagged to the post of a nearby fruit stand drew Jacquotte’s notice. Approaching, she swiped one of the soft fruits stacked in rows and read the declaration aloud.

“Substantial reward to the one who delivers the Wishing Maiden – she of the legend – to the noble Prince Caietanus,” she half-murmured. “An interview and trial to be passed, fifty thousand in gold and a noble title…”

“Looks to be as fruitful a task as pushing a boulder up a mountain,” Bron had up from behind her, grabbing one of the fruits as well, though it was plainly pretense to see what had caught Jacquotte’s eye. “Thoughts?”

“We could pick this city of clean of fifty thousand gold faster than we could find a myth,” the redhead mused. “Still…”

“I know that look,” the larger woman laughed and clapped her on the back – Jacquotte didn’t buckle, though anyone weaker would have. “Don’t incite Grete with promises of wealth; I don’t think even _she_ would think this particular flight of fancy would turn a profit.”

“I suppose not,” the loss of an opportunity never sat well, with her, but the ringleader had some sensibility to her. It often conflicted with the things she _wanted_ to do, but on rare occasions, she found she had no choice but to listen to it…especially when Bron inadvertently wound up speaking Jacquotte’s mind on her behalf.

“We’ll see what comes of being here, shall we not?” Bron suggested. “Bound to be _something_ to keep you entertained…”

“If there isn’t, I’ll create my own amusement.”

She was almost certain she’d have to do exactly that.

‘ _Just as I thought. Shame; that may have proven amusing, for a few days, at least.’_

With their dismissal of the notice, she failed to see a single merit to the city of Felicitie. If there was one thing Jacquotte couldn’t abide the thought of, it was being one day trapped in a place like _this_. No adventure, no mischief, no excitement or fun. Everything she’d ever done had been the result of an impulse (or Grete’s plans, the hoarder would argue, but she didn’t seem to realize that whether Jacquotte took to those plans to begin with were all based on whimsy).

They wouldn’t stay for long, she promised herself. Long enough to have Bron spilling out of her chair, and if they were in a state, they’d buy up every free room at a local inn (Grete would simply have to live with the blow to their stash; their robbery and play had only broken them even, with the cost of passage across the sea) and spend the night. Move out by morning, venture on to the next town, and hope for something more exciting there.

They could always purchase passage on another ship, but she didn’t care for the idea. One sea trip right after another…the scenery would bore her to tears.

 

The sky was beginning to darken by the time they had decided on an adequate place to drink the night away; the first three they had passed had been dismissed without room for argument, Jacquotte not having any interest in places so _quiet_ . She was certain there was something _better_ just a little further…

And after two more times of ‘just a little further’, they’d finally reached the part of town the fiery redhead had an interest in. There were grubby-handed children and overloaded mothers, fathers who had worked themselves to the brink of exhaustion but needed those few hours of drinking and griping to soothe their aches. If there was any place they might find a fight to go along with their whiskey, it would be a tavern like that.

And sure enough, the moment Jacquotte burst through the door with her four in tow, the atmosphere curdled and went sour.

“Are you…sure?” Lyall questioned quietly, standing much-too-close…not that Jacquotte even took notice. His tone was hushed from urgency, nearly whispering against her ear, “I understand, you want entertainment while you drink, and I, for one, will always be there to hold a man down while you snap his neck, but we shouldn’t go _looking_ for a fight… We’re not welcome here, it’s plain as day…”

“That’s what makes it interesting,” sweeping towards a table, Jacquotte carelessly shoved two near-empty tankards aside, sliding into a seat and drawing stares when her iron-capped heels landed on the table.

Many had gone silent; it was not so quiet that all activity appeared to have come to a halt, but too many patrons had gone still. If it hadn’t been exactly the kind of reaction Jacquotte had been hoping for, she may have been unnerved.

Unhesitating, Bron took the seat across from their ringleader with a casual jerk of her chin towards the nearest barmaid. “A pint for each of us, I think,” she looked to Jacquotte for confirmation, nodding in sync with her.

“We’ll need more than that, for a good time…but I suppose we’re pinching our pennies, are we?” Sly scoffed.

“Hey…!”

“Not tonight,” throwing Grete a warning look, Jacquotte spoke over the dim yell; a stocky man and his taller friend were approaching, their faces dusty and streaked with sweat. Under the grime, though, they both looked indignant.

She ignored them completely.

“In a city like this one, we’ll need all the help we can get to make an adventure out of tonight,” her chest strained against the thick straps crossed over her chest, keeping the sturdy leather plate secure over her torso. After sighing dramatically, the pressure lessened.

“ _Oi!_ ” the stocky man drove his fist against the table, rattling Jacquotte’s boots. Dusky hazel narrowed into slits.

“Excuse me,” her voice began to take on a quieter sort of hiss. “That was rude.”

“You stole our table!” he shot back.

“You’d left it.”

“Only for a moment!”

“For a moment or not, you left it. It was free for the taking,” she took her feet down, hunching forward over the polished plank slightly. “We haven’t touched your drinks, so why not take them away and leave us to our evening?”

Impossible to see, her palms had begun to itch. _‘Don’t take them away. Don’t leave us to our evening. Give me something to talk about tomorrow morning.’_

As though capable of seeing into her thoughts, Grete sat back and rolled her eyes in exasperation.

“Why not get up from our table and leave Felicitie?” the taller man was starting to get into the rhythm his friend was setting, snarling at the group as though they were a family of rats he’d found living under his floorboard. “We can’t stand people like you – travelers who come in, take, give nothing back! I wish-…”

“Wish?” Jacquotte let out a bark of laughter. “I did hear that’s all the people of Felicitie _do_ , is wish. They take no action, they only dream of it.”

“You’re goading them,” Lyall cautioned urgently, as though the ringleader wasn’t entirely aware of what she was doing.

“Oh, is it action you want?” spitting, a man made a grab for her with sausage-thick fingers; the moment he’d exposed his gut, Bron’s fist dented it. He choked on his breath, doubling over and clutching at the back of a chair for support – Grete’s chair.

“Don’t you lay a hand on me,” she hissed, standing bolt upright and knocking the chair back in the process…straight into another local, who had been too much of a fool to move away.

The result was pandemonium.

Jacquotte’s saber was drawn in a flash of glinting steel; Bron’s rock-hard fists were smashing against every unwashed face in sight, angry shouts piping up from each corner of the tavern. Promptly, Grete slipped beneath the table, arms protectively cradling her moneybags like a mother would shield her child.

Mid-lunge, the first assailant seemed to realize that she’d a sword in hand, and he was about to spear himself straight through. He tumbled in his attempt to avoid impalement, lashing out clumsily with fists and feet, as though under the impression he could topple Jacquotte and brawl with her on the floor, sans-sword. Too-easily, Jacquotte leapt over him and ducked a heavy tankard – strong-smelling droplets showered the floor and glass broke into thick beads as it collided with the wall; another smash followed as Lyall pinpointed the attacker, grabbing another heavy glass mug and slamming it against the thrower’s back, the resulting impact throwing them both off balance.

It was a whirlwind of color, a cacophony of chaos – and with each slash of her sword through cloth and skin, every hard _thud_ from an assailant hitting the floor, Jacquotte’s adrenaline spiked higher. Her blows were, for the most part, to maim only; she felt no concern over the loud crack over her shoulder, glimpsing Bron’s thick arm locked under the jaw of a man flailing about with a broken chair leg. It may have been his jaw, or it could have been his neck – he jerked when he hit the floor, so Jacquotte assumed he wasn’t quite dead.

If he was, it certainly couldn’t be helped _now_.

Sly had few weapons of his own, but he rarely needed them. At her left, knives of all kinds whizzed by at lethal speeds – the steak-knives on the table, the skinning knives from drinking hunters, the daggers of those who were – like them – illegally armed. There was a shriek from one of the barmaids as something tore through her skirts, prompting her to dive behind the counter to preserve her modesty. She heard Sly laugh, loud and clear as a bell, and preemptively she gave a shallow slash across the chest of one of the men to roar with indignation.

This chaos was what she lived for, _this_ was what made dull kingdoms worth visiting, _this_ was –

“Halt!”

The whistle was so shrill she may have dropped her sword to cover her ears, if it had continued. Two short blasts; the lawmen’s whistle.

Well, that was disappointing.

As expected, the locals seemed to retreat towards the walls, all heaving breaths and rubbing sore limbs. Jacquotte didn’t lower the saber, and she felt Bron’s back meet hers. As expected – she knew the other woman wouldn’t want to let the fight end, like this. Not when there was still more fun to be had.

Her expression of anticipation dropped slightly, however, when she saw the lawmen in the doorway.

So proud and pompous, with crisp uniforms of greens, purples, and gold – the colors of Felicitie’s flag, and the royal crest emblazoned on those badges they wore like medals of honor. They looked more like jesters than officials, Jacquotte thought, but she was forced to show a certain amount of respect when one of them had a very familiar face, and a blade thrust under Lyall’s throat.

“Come now,” she was playing more confident than she felt; reckless she may have been, but gambling with the life of ‘one of hers’ was not something she made a practice of. “You wouldn’t kill without necessity.”

“I may just find the need,” he sneered back. She wasn’t certain if he was calling her bluff, or if it was the other way around.

Jacquotte lowered the point of her sword.

“We have, here, an order signed from the Prince Caietanus. He would like you brought to the castle immediately, to sentence you for disruption of the peace and for thievery.”

“I’d like to see him prove that second one,” Grete snorted from below the table, though she was crawling out to look to Jacquotte for instruction.

“There were eyewitnesses,” the lawman sounded incredulous. “I was one of them!”

“I have every piece of gold counted,” she argued. “I could-…”

“Enough of this!” he interrupted, clearly losing patience. Lyall’s gulp was almost audible; the blade was just a little nearer to his neck, now. “Either you come quietly, or you’ll force my hand. The Prince was informed you might need persuading, and I was given permission to use _any means_ necessary to ensure your cooperation.”

Bron turned; one hand was now clamped on Jacquotte’s shoulder. Sly was quicker than them all…if she gave the word, he’d have that knife knocked out of the lawman’s hand. Bron was stronger…with that done, it would be a simple matter to wrestle him away from Lyall. Jacquotte, of course, was handiest with a blade…

Which she sheathed.

That was instruction enough. Though the pair of them looked disapproving, they likewise lowered their weapons – Sly, his daggers, and Bron, her fists.

Grete, on the other hand, couldn’t hide a very small smile, as though this was simply another step in a complicated plan. Jacquotte didn’t notice.

“Very well,” she nodded. “Take us to your Prince.”

Smugness ghosting over his face, the lawman nodded to his comrades. The other pair stepped forward, shackles at the ready and approaching the redhead.

Her saber was at face-level again, and on behalf of their fellow lawman, the other two froze.

“I said I would go quietly,” she arched one eyebrow. “Don’t think for a moment that means I’ll be your _captive_.”

The lawman’s gaze turned steely, “And don’t you think for a moment that we won’t ensure your cooperation, if we have to beat you down to do it.”

 

***

 

_ Scene iv _

 

Watching Jacquotte stride into his throne room at her own unworried pace was like a stab at the Prince’s authority, and Balthazar recognized the challenge likely before his royal master did. While the rest of her little troupe had consented to the chains (though, by the gods, Balthazar would have bet good money on Bron being able to break free of hers with little struggle) their leader had clearly put up such a fuss that the lawmen had found it easier to give in and allow her to trail behind them with her head held high.

Caietanus had not bothered to dress for visitors, considering he was only expected to make a ruling, but the way he had composed himself still spoke well of the royal bloodline. He was undeniably striking, even when his features were twisted into a caricature of his face at rest; Caietanus was displeased, and he made no attempts at concealing it.

“I imagine the five of you are Red Quintet, as I have heard you called,” he spoke in a slow, deliberate sort of manner, and it was as though his anger followed his words right out of his mouth. It seeped away from his expression until he was casual-as-you-please, folding his fingers before him.

“And I imagine you are to be our judge. The Prince, I presume?” Jacquotte wandered in front of her shackled comrades, ignoring the way their captors seethed. “Haven’t heard much of you.”

“Why do they call the five of you ‘red’, I wonder?” Caietanus seemed to ignore the insult, but Balthazar – ever attentive – caught the way his fingers went rigid, locking together. “Is it passion, they named you for? Blood?”

“I do hate to make it obvious, but…” Jacquotte twirled the fiery strands of her hair that were still loose.

“Of course,” Caietanus smiled, but it was thin. “Observant as people may be, one can’t accuse them of creativity.”

“And if you did, I imagine you’d throw them on the executioner’s block without evidence, just to get some entertainment in this monotonous excuse for a kingdom.”

Balthazar leaned down close to the Prince, thin fingers nearly falling on his shoulder as he hissed against his ear, “You _could_ have her hanged, my Lord – don’t forget you are losing favor with your people… The stir they’ve made, the trouble they’ve caused-…”

“Do be quiet, Balthazar,” Caietanus retorted in an undertone, standing up slowly. The raised pedestal on which he stood already had him looking down at Jacquotte, but it was apparent he felt even more superior with the additional height.

Not once did her gaze waver, even at the clinking of movement behind her. Grete was shuffling about, uncomfortably weighed down by her bags of gold, and Sly was losing patience with the stillness, more accustomed to being able to fiddle with daggers or any other trinket he could pilfer.

“I really have heard more of you than you may have guessed,” Caietanus informed her, and Balthazar’s eyes attempted to bore holes into his back. _Where_ had he heard such things…?

“They say you’ll do most anything for the sheer excitement of it. Would you say that was accurate?”

Jacquotte’s eyes narrowed, but not in anger. “I hadn’t realized my reputation was so specific.”

“Is it true?” he barely restrained the irritation from leaking into his voice, again.

“I would say so, _my Lord_. Or, my apologies… Is it ‘Your Highness’? I never could get those titles right.”

He ignored the sarcasm and stepped down the shallow steps, finding eye-level with the infamous young woman.

“I believe I have a proposal for you. One that would prevent me from having you hanged at dawn, as I believe is called for in several towns over – Felicitie was not your first stop on your blaze of destruction, isn’t it?”

His choice of words had effectively broken through her mask. Almost growling, she said, “I wouldn’t be so melodramatic as to call it that. If you think that I would-…”

“Do not jump to any conclusions,” he laughed, a condescending sort of tinkling. “This proposition regards a legend. One you have no doubt heard of… The Wishing Maiden, even people like _you_ know the tales, correct?”

Too relieved he wasn’t suggesting anything that would have made violence unavoidable, the redhead’s hand drifted away from her saber. She had been unaware that she’d reached for it without thinking; likewise, she was unaware that the lawmen had gone to draw their own.

“Of course,” she replied carefully. “You are suggesting-…?”

“That you find this Wishing Maiden and bring her to me,” Caietanus was making his way back to his throne, sitting and leaning forward as though sharing a secret with the room. “There are hunts for her all across the world, or so my advisor tells me… You would be one of many, but I assure you, you would be _richly_ rewarded if you managed it. I don’t only mean with the sparing of your lives, I should add…”

Grete had drawn herself up, speaking in a manner Jacquotte was familiar with. “We decline your offer.”

“Grete!” Jacquotte hissed, turning towards her. She almost wished, now, that she’d told her about the notice; if he was holding true to his offer of fifty thousand and a chance to avoid the dullness of a prison cell, Jacquotte saw no need to hesitate.

She missed the similar way in which Balthazar spoke the Prince’s name, hunching hastily to speak by his ear.

“My Lord, I do not think people like _these_ are quite the right sort to be sent on such a quest-…”

“I would be tempted by a tale like this even without the promise of reward,” Jacquotte muttered in irritation, having turned her back to the royal and his advisor, striding close to her compatriot. Immediately, Sly and Bron leaned in to also overhear; Lyall, still pale and watchful of the lawmen, refrained from doing so.

“He’s as readable as a carving on a coin, Jacquotte,” Grete whispered back. “He wants you to be the one to do it, and I’ll be damned if I don’t squeeze every last penny from him!”

“Someone like her would be perfect,” Caietanus, meanwhile, argued with Balthazar. “She’s simple-minded, brutish, I doubt she would even know what to do with a Wishing Maiden had she the want of one. Am I not clever for realizing this?”

“Yes, my Lord, but a criminal-…”

“Her want is for wanton crime. She’ll bring me the Maiden and be gone from Felicitie, never to be _my_ problem again. It’s effective, is it not?”

“Yes, my Lord, but someone closer to you, more trustworthy-…”

“And if he decides we aren’t worth arguing with?” Jacquotte gripped Grete’s shoulder tightly. She was often right, when it came to people and their money, but this wasn’t a chance she particularly wanted to let go. “As interesting a tale it would be, telling everyone how I escaped from the gallows in Felicitie, I think I would much rather pursue a mythical maiden.”

“Then why haven’t you, before?” Grete shot back.

“You never would have allowed it, and I don’t believe a word of those stories. All the same, now that it’s been presented as an option…”

“For the gods’ sake, you’re like a dog with a bone!”

“Not one of those peasants who have come to me has possessed the strength to fight off whoever else might be pursuing my Maiden,” the prince continued. “There was the greed of repressed men in their eyes, as well. Men like _those_ , they’d use their wishes to better their stations and then run off with her, don’t you see?”

“Yes, my Lord-…”

“And if anyone can be trusted not to decide to make the Maiden their own, it would be a woman.”

“Come on, now,” Jacquotte wheedled, though from the look on her face, it was only exasperating Grete all the more. “I respect your opinion and your wants, Grete – you’re my oldest friend, and don’t think I don’t treasure that. That said…”

“If I don’t concur, you’ll still go chasing after this so-called Maiden, despite that she may very well be _fictional?_ ”

“Like you did say,” she purred. “Like a dog with a bone.”

“Right now, you’re more like a smug housecat,” she crossed her arms, jangling her shackles. The sound seemed to remind her of the cost at stake, and she grew visibly more hesitant. “Don’t fret, I know how to bargain, and I can tell – we’ll do this for a fee, or not at all.”

“No,” Jacquotte corrected. “We’ll do this for a fee, if you manage your negotiation, or we’ll do it because I like a challenge. You’ll just have to cut our losses. I’ve already decided.”

“Ugh…”

“She may be a woman, my Lord, but two of her companions are _not_ ,” Balthazar was attempting to remind his prince, who only looked less and less interested in his advisor’s arguments.

“They are to their leader as you are to me,” he snickered, condescending, as always. “Like the Captain of a ship – the spoils are for _her_ , and her alone, and they will not be delegated to the men, if she is any kind of leader.”

“I’m unsure of where you developed that view, my Lord…”

“Answer me plainly,” he turned to face him dead-on, and the growing irritation behind his almost-pleasant façade gave Balthazar severe doubts over his efforts. “Am I not clever enough to be sure of what I’m doing?”

For once, the royal advisor was incredibly thankful that being so close to his prince and looking him in the eye made his mind a tad fuzzy.

“…Yes, my Lord.”

“Then I’ll hear no more of your arguments, Balthazar,” Caietanus waved him away quite literally, rising again and clearing his throat loudly to catch their attention. Jacquotte quickly turned back, though it didn’t matter to her in the least if having her back to a royal was any more treasonous than her earlier ribbing.

“If you bring me the Wishing Maiden, I hereby swear to you that you will walk out of my castle gates with one quarter of my fortune,” he declared, and neither he nor Balthazar missed the hungry glint in Grete’s eyes.

“One quarter, you say?” she stepped forward, side-by-side with Jacquotte. “Percentages are tricky things. How much would that amount to?”

“Balthazar?” Caietanus looked back to him. At first, the advisor floundered, but there was no indication he was to give an untruthful answer.

“You offer nearly eighty thousand coin, my Lord,” he held back a bitter sigh.

Jacquotte’s eyebrows flew upwards.

‘ _Thirty thousand more than what was offered on the notice? He must be joking.’_

Grete’s lips parted slightly, and Jacquotte would have sworn she heard her purr like a cat. “That sounds like a short leap away from one hundred thousand.”

Before Balthazar could voice a protest regarding her impudence, Caietanus had nodded sharply and announced, “Reasonable! One hundred thousand and your lives, for you to bring the Wishing Maiden to me. If you do so in good time, I may even allow you to stay in Felicitie long enough to celebrate my nuptials.”

“What an honor,” Sly murmured under his breath.

“My Lord, that’s quite the sum,” Balthazar hissed. He was aware that Caietanus could just as easily wish such an amount back into his vaults, but to give ingrates like _them_ so much money…

“You intend to wed the Wishing Maiden?” a smirk flitted over Jacquotte’s lips. “I believe that’s the prize for her rescuer, is it not? That would fall to me.”

“You must think yourself incredibly amusing,” Grete shot her a poisonous look, but Caietanus simply laughed.

“I’m sure she’ll find the arrangement agreeable enough, since I can’t justly _leave_ Felicitie,” he managed not to make it sound as though he were lording his station over everyone else in the room, though Balthazar was plainly aware that he was doing exactly that. “If you find yourself upset that this arrangement doesn’t match the stories word-for-word, I could always…retract my offer. Find someone else, and have the five of you executed…”

“Apologies, my Lord, she has a poor sense of humor,” Grete laughed shortly, her heel digging against Jacquotte’s leg.

“Then I recommend the five of you get started on your journey,” Caietanus snapped his fingers towards the lawmen. “Although…do not think you’ll be leaving as you are.”

“Meaning?” Jacquotte disliked his tone.

“I’ll require some kind of collateral from you,” he smiled. It was too pleasant, for the redhead’s liking. “Those moneybags – those are all your funds, are they not?”

Immediately, Grete thrashed against her bonds. “There’s no need to take _these_ …”

“I will, of course, allow you to keep one… As an allowance,” he watched as two of his lawmen began wrestling the heavy sacks away from Grete, pretending that he didn’t delight in the setting of her jaw or the furious glint to her eye. “They will only weigh you down in your travels, I’m sure, and I can be _certain_ you’ll come back for these. Besides, others who seek the Wishing Maiden may be after the very gold you carry – why tempt fate? Avoid every possible attack, hm?”

Jacquotte, rather unworried, patted Grete’s shoulder as the girl stared after their immense stash as it was hauled away. “I trust we’ll get all of it back,” she may not have cared much for the money, itself, but being robbed didn’t sit well with her.

“All of it,” Caietanus confirmed, “plus a King’s ransom.”

 

They had been provided with next to nothing; three horses, which they had to purchase. More food and water, which would sustain them along the way, even though there were bound to be towns that they came across.

Aside from those things, they were leaving with even less than what they came with, which left a sour taste in the mouths of four out of five of the Red Quintet.

Prince Caietanus, immensely satisfied with his decision, had swept off to his bedchambers with all the smugness of a snake that had just squeezed the life out of his latest meal.

And the royal advisor…

Balthazar was cursing the unanticipated hiccup and wishing he had simply torn himself from the prince’s side while he’d still had the chance.

It was true that he had yet to even develop a satisfactorily solid plan – putting together a team of easily-manipulated common-folk had turned out to be a more tiring endeavor than he’d anticipated. Strong enough to fight off any number of people in the midst of the same impossible pursuit, clever enough to track her down when she had been successfully hidden for a century, foolish enough not to start wishing for power of their own the moment she could hear their voices…

People like that were hard to find, for whatever reason, but Balthazar would have made do. He would have found people who could at least serve his purposes – maybe they did make a wish or two, or maybe he would have had to do the investigation himself, from afar. He could have sent letters by pigeon, perhaps, or had the lawmen travel by train to check on them regularly, carrying confidential instructions.

Surely _anyone_ would have been better than half-cocked rogues, known criminals, who were _sure_ to find ways of betraying them. At the very least, they ought to have held onto one of Jacquotte’s own… Gold! Gold was all they had in their clutches, as though they couldn’t simply wish for more!

‘ _But I_ _ **will**_ _turn this to my advantage. So long as I wish upon her, before my Prince… I’ll have him screaming nothing but the words, “Yes, my Lord,” until the end of days.’_

Were he less subtle, he might have laughed himself comatose merely at the thought. Instead, he slinked into town with a hood over his head, and began sowing the seeds of an uprising.

It never hurt to have a second plan, in case the first one failed.


	3. Chapter II

_ Chapter II; Act I, scene v _

 

 

Every rumor stemmed from the legend, and as anyone could tell you, facts were buried somewhere beneath all the fancy and fairytales. When the people of Felicitie learned of the tavern disruption and the lawmen keeping the peace, they looked for answers regarding what became of Jacquotte and her troupe. When there was no execution, and accusations of the Prince letting her go free – not only free, but tasked with something of  great importance – the anger began to brew.

People were saying that he had offered her one hundred thousand in gold.

People were saying he had proposed to the harlot, and that if she proved her love by bringing him the Maiden, they would have a criminal for a Queen.

People were saying he was going to lock the Wishing Maiden away, again, this time to do only  his bidding. His every wish would be granted, and the people would see none of the benefits beyond the prince’s expanded rule.

He was becoming a tyrant, some were swearing upon their mother’s lives. They had news from  inside the castle , from the royal’s staff. No, they would not say who. To say their name would be inviting the harshest sentence, upon them, and upon him. ‘Him’? Who said ‘him’? No, no, it was not a man. It  may have been a man. They would never tell.

It was about then that Balthazar would draw his hood more securely over his face and duck down the side-streets, skittering back up to the castle like a sheepish puppy trying to get home before his master took notice.

 

***

 

 

“ _So I just yes,_

_To appease his Highness,_

_And impress the noblesse…_

 

_And I must confess,_

_That I tend to obsess_

_Upon my own success…”_

-          The Advisor’s lament.

 

 

***

 

Not a word of the locals’ displeasure was breathed to Prince Caietanus.

 

***

 

 

“ _Anyone could guess,_

_Which want I would express,_

_And she will acquiesce…!_

 

_And one day he’ll say it –_

_No, I’ll make him_ _**scream** _ _it –_

_Only if I permit!_

_Until then, I just say yes.”_

-          The Advisor’s oath.

 

 

***

 

Among the common man, secrets were a part of one’s day. Honor among thieves left less room for secrecy, but vocalizing one’s doubt in regards to Jacquotte’s half-formed plots was never a recipe for anything good. In their profession, dishonesty was valued just as highly as the opposite – each one of them, save Bron, perhaps, would have argued that to their very last breath.

 

***

 

“ _Nothing greater I detest,_

_Than Jacquotte when on a quest._

_Chasing legends – she’s obsessed,_

_And all my fears go unaddressed!_

_If this venture gains no gold,_

_Or no Maiden to behold,_

_If I die before I’m old,_

_She’ll regret being so bold!_

_In all fairness, I attest,_

_I have my own interest;_

_When I’m rich, she’ll be my guest –_

_Adventure can be sold!”_

 

***

 

Every time Jacquotte’s horse pulled a tiny bit ahead of the other two, concealed opinions were bantered back and forth between the remaining four.

Despite how enamored she was with the reward, Grete’s expression soured whenever she was forced to face the absurdity of their mission. Were it a con, she would have understood, and already she was planning for their failure.

No one knew for  certain what this ‘Wishing Maiden’ looked like. All anyone seemed to know for certain was that she was beautiful.

Someone had probably  wished for her to be beautiful.

 

***

 

 

“ _Here, I’ve got to side with Grete._

_Hunting myths – now that’s a feat._

_I miss living on the street,_

_Wild chases aren’t a treat._

_Sure, it’s better than a noose,_

_But I wish she’d cut me loose._

_Questing borders on abuse!_

_Adventure-lust is no excuse!_

_Gold makes it a little sweet,_

_But I’m still run off my feet._

_My main concern, I’ll repeat –_

_Can this Maiden be seduced?!”_

 

 

***

 

Sly’s proposal that they go no further than a brothel in the next town over was flatly rejected by Jacquotte.

“It’s too easy to turn this into a con,” she dismissed.

“Easy?!” Grete squawked. “And how would you fake the prince’s wishes?!”

“Simple,” she arched an eyebrow with an easy smirk. “I’d leave that to you to figure out.”

When the hoarder’s face began to purple, Jacquotte laughed. “Oh, calm down. I kid. I just meant it would be easier to fake this sort of thing than to actually find this Maiden – we don’t know where to look, what sort of confines she could be found in…”

“Some of the stories say she’s buried deep underground,” Lyall supplied. “Under a well, trapped behind the wall of a mausoleum, chained to the roots of a great tree…”

“Those theories become outlandish fast, don’t they?” Jacquotte snorted; it wasn’t a graceful or lady-like sound, but to Lyall, it may as well have been the sound angels made from on high.

 

***

 

 

“ _If not for Jacquotte, we’d be dead!_

_I’m quite partial to my head,_

_And she has confidence, she said!_

_This may change our lives, instead?_

_So maybe I’m afraid, a tad._

_Honestly, I’m mostly glad!_

_This Maiden suffers, might I add._

_Her grip on things is not so bad._

_And if this wild goose has led_

_To no profit, only dread,_

_Do not think of what’s ahead…_

… _I confess, I think she’s mad.”_

 

 

***

 

“The fact that she’s kept below the ground is consistent. We can rule out checking towers for pretty maidens, I’d wager,” Bron dug her heels into the gelding’s side, urging him into a faster trot. “Jacquotte?”

“Agreed. Somewhere off the beaten path. Considering the mania surrounding this woman, I’d guarantee that any place with more than a handful of people will have found the time to start digging for her. Exciting, isn’t it? A bit like those buried treasures we used to try to find, eh, Grete?”

“Except the likelihood of striking gold was far greater,” the other woman grumbled.

A sharp look from Bron silenced her effectively; there were some expressions that were ten times as frightening when worn by someone twice one’s size, and when the wielder was Bron, there was no room for argument.

 

***

 

 

“ _Lyall, too? Now, that’s enough!_

_You haven’t got it all that rough._

_If you think our mission’s tough,_

_You should be made from sterner stuff!_

_At worst, we lose our money sacks._

_That’s just more weight off our backs._

_This is just how Jacquotte acts;_

_Think of it as rescue tax._

_I’d better hear no more guff,_

_Or I swear I’ll call your bluff._

_This venture isn’t up to snuff?_

_Then go back to the axe!”_

-          The Red Quintet’s lament.

 

 

***

 

There was almost no corner of the world that had  not been searched for the Wishing Maiden. The more ridiculous the theory, the more willing Jacquotte was to give it a try – perhaps because a better story came from spending a day creeping through a crypt and unburying the dead, making inadvertent grave-robbers of her troupe but not finding any girl of myth.

She mused that, perhaps, other tales had stemmed from her story. They returned to the seas at the suggestion from Sly that a Siren’s song was the call of one’s own desires; perhaps she was at the very depths of the ocean.

Maybe being underground was a metaphor, Grete pondered. The Wishing Maiden could have been on the opposite end of the Earth. It would take too long to confirm, but there were no stories of desires or power or the like, in exotic lands; they questioned every person they met, who had come from a land across the oceans, and not a single one had heard of a Wishing Maiden.

Their most valuable resource was – as it always tended to be – those who had laid the groundwork for them. Every dreamer who had tried, in the past, found themselves at sword point at one time or another; through process of elimination, they still had…

Endless possibilities.

Nights bled into day; day, back into night. It reached the point where she had lost track of time, and the simple joy of pursuing what most thought to be impossible had begun to fade. With their lives on the line (and their gold, which Grete argued was even more important) Jacquotte didn’t dare to bring them anywhere near Felicitie without the Maiden in tow.

Only three times did Caietanus’s lawmen come for them. They weren’t such a joke, when they attacked en masse. The first time, they escaped with no wounds, but considerably less gold; Grete was furious, but Jacquotte preferred that to the alternative they had threatened. They’d demanded a heftier collateral – one of her own, to be taken back to the castle in Felicitie. Despite all their assurances that no harm would come to whoever went back with them, she stood firm. Grete made doing so a tad difficult when she attempted to (figuratively) throw herself on the sword rather than be separated from her beloved money, but Jacquotte managed to talk her down. The second and third encounters ended much the same way, with more injuries on both sides. It wasn’t until one of the lawmen was slain that they seemed to withdraw entirely, and they hadn’t come to be a bother in some time.

The Hunting Parties were more frequent of a bother, but they were more of an annoyance than a hindrance. Still, it was becoming so routine that the Red Quintet was almost maddened by the rut.

 

Hardly a week’s travel from Felicitie was the town of Libsmene, squashed up against the edge of a river; tall, narrow houses tended to stack old volumes from floor to ceiling, and the scholars who came to town to learn were well-fed – they could gorge themselves on whatever they could catch, for it was as easy as dipping a net into the current and letting the overflow of trout, bass, and tilapia swim straight in.

News traveled fast and far, however, and Jacquotte had been able to track at least four Hunting Parties back to the so-called ‘subdued’ town of learning.

“It does make sense,” Sly lifted one shoulder in a partial shrug. “Scholars – pompous bunch of windbags, more like. Think they know everything, don’t they? Suppose that includes the Wishing Maiden’s whereabouts.”

“So if we’re going to hear anything other than wild rumors, we’d hear them here,” Jacquotte took what she needed to from the pickpocket’s disdain. 

“What do you think?” Bron questioned. “Shall we part ways, meet back here before dusk with whatever information we’ve gathered?”

“Unwise,” the leader shook her head. “Wish Hunters running amok, like this, one of ours could wind up hurt if we go around asking questions.”

“So, what do you suggest?”

“Speaking for myself, I battle better than I search. Wouldn’t you say, Bron?”

The blonde behemoth let out a bark of laughter. “I suppose I do, yes. So you intend to find a Hunting Party and-…?”

“Let them give us a guided tour,” bow-lips curled.

With the confirmation from the remaining three – though Grete and Lyall showed reluctance in varying degrees – it was a disturbingly simple affair to stumble upon familiar expressions. The faces themselves, Jacquotte would not have been able to place – nondescript and not ones she had ever seen before, anyway, she was sure. The looks upon them were another story.

She was becoming very well-acquainted with that look of ferocity and hunger, a poor mask slapped over desperation and longing. The things that hope did to people were a mixed blessing, to be sure…but since the mania over the Maiden had picked up, she was certainly seeing more of the bad than the good.

Handily enough, they were dealt with; their group had taken the upper hand from the start, for a change, and the redhead’s saber saw blood within the first minute of meeting their rivals.

They fought quick, cheap, and dirty. They lacked any sort of finesse, clearly never having been outside a barroom brawl. They fell so immediately it was almost discouraging, but Jacquotte decided to attempt to find their worth, regardless.

Kneeling down with the point of her sword resting against the ground and splitting grass as she turned the blade, Jacquotte eyed the one she guessed to be the wisest. He had tried to take cover, and then retreat, while his friends had tried desperately to stand firm; in her books, that marked him as being cleverer. At the very least, more observant.

“Boy, I have questions,” she said firmly, “and you’d better pray you have the answers. Are you from here?”

“N-no, miss,” he stumbled briefly over his words due to a quivering chin. “Came from-…”

“That’s not important,” she dismissed immediately. “You’re Wish Hunters?”

His eyes widened imperceptibly, and she could see in his face that he expected to die. Shakily, he nodded.

“Wipe that look,” she sighed. “I won’t run you through unless you give me reason. Now, your Hunting mates – they came here, to Libsmene, to separate the fact from the truth. Is that right?”

“Well yes, miss, but-…”

“Ah, shush,” with her free left hand, she cupped the boy's chin and juddered his head, a little. “I get the feeling you aren’t about to tell me something that will please me…”

“Not…really, no, miss,” he swallowed hard.

“Go on, then,” she sighed. “Although, if you tell me the facts are no different at all from the stories, I’ll be in a terrible mood for the rest of the day.”

“It’s just that,” hesitant, the unfortunate Hunter tried to scoot back just a tad. Jacquotte responded by leaning forward on her sword just a little, making up for the space lost. Glancing back, he noted Bron only a step or two behind him, and recognized defeat. “…It’s just that, none of it was particularly _helpful_. Interesting, maybe, depending on what your interest _is_ , but most aren’t looking for the Maiden for research purposes, are they? And I suppose a lot like you wouldn’t care for-…”

“A lot like us?” Lyall sounded almost offended. Sly frowned, as though echoing the sentiment.

“I think he’s suggesting that we aren’t _intellectual_. That’s a little bit hurtful.”

“Boys,” Jacquotte interrupted flatly, then fixed her gaze back on the stranger. “Do continue, anyway.”

“…Well, there aren’t any set-in-stone tales on where she is,” he wasn’t stammering so much, anymore. “No one’s even certain, really, that she stayed on this continent – what’s certain is, after all this time, she wouldn’t be dead… But, what state she would be in, and where that would be? No one knows.”

She wasn’t pleased – as hypothesized.

“Alright, then, what _is_ certain?”

“Nothing can be _certain_ , there’s only consensus,” his tone, starting out arrogant, quivered back down a meek some of undertone as Sly began twirling his knives, again. “Things like, the Maiden was last _said_ to be seen sailing here, on a foreign ship known as the _‘Manjusha’_. Luckiest ship there was, oldest one built by man, until it crashed on the shore – where the wreckage was, the castle of Felicitie was built, and the city grew around it. From there, she seemed to have disappeared from any written documentation…”

“And this was when?”

“Only ‘round a century ago, miss,” he answered. “Everything after that were only rumors and wild accounts from people’s great-grandfathers.”

“Alright,” Jacquotte sighed. “What else can you tell me? What about _her?_ ”

“Even less is known about the Maiden herself, save the simplest facts… She will grant any wish she hears, any at all, be it made with pure intent or m-malice,” clearly, he was sounding too intelligent for his own good again; Sly was wandering close, the point of his knife ‘accidentally’ pointing his way once or twice. Jacquotte paid no heed; he only ever reacted violently towards those who were deliberately condescending. What he was doing was obviously just for fun.

“Some tried to…kill the Maiden, for fear of her blessings being abused. Things were much more bloody, back then – liable to strike at their neighbor for looking at them wrong, you know the way it was. They could not, and given the amount of documentation on those attempts, we can be sure she couldn’t be killed. They did horrific things, and still, she granted their wishes…”

“Positively saintly of her,” Jacquotte rolled her eyes; only a week, and hearing everyone singing her praise was getting tiresome.

“That’s-… I’m sorry, that is all I know for certain…” he trailed off.

“Nothing else that can lead us to her whereabouts?” she growled.

He choked a little, and his stutter was back with a vengeance. “Sh-she, er… They say she’s underground? Perhaps buried…! Or, in a cave, somewhere by the mountains!”

“We knew that already,” expression set, Jacquotte gripped her saber by the handle and hoisted herself up, though she put no weight on the blade, in truth. The Hunter regarding her nervously – or, more precisely, stared at the steel.

When she noticed, she granted him a small smile, “Don’t look so afraid. You’ve saved your life. Clever of you to cooperate.”

His exhale was shaky, but light; however, his cheeks went wan again as he asked, “What about my companions?”

Scrutinizing each one – there were about three others, fallen on the ground – she stepped over an unconscious body and placed her foot on his chest. He didn’t stir. “Tell me, what was this one planning to wish for?”

Promptly, the young man’s cheeks filled with blood, going from ashen-pale to embarrassed red. “A-… A bevy of beautiful brides.”

Jacquotte made a ‘tut’ sort of noise. “I do hate to see a dream die.”

The point of her saber was pressed over the man’s heart, and on  _him_ , she let her full weight fall.

“Let that be a proper warning to the rest of you,” she jerked the blade free, ignoring how horribly shaken her informant was, as well as the feminine yelp that escaped him. “I honestly do hate having to kill when it’s not necessary – maybe continue preaching, hm? You were rather good at it. Tell all others who pass through here to give up on their search…for their own good.”

Faintly, the young man nodded, and hid his face behind his palms until their footsteps had faded.

They left Libsmene before the dusk, Lyall further laden down with fish for the night’s feast, and hardly any more information to go on.

 

She had hoped that what she had gained would have amounted to something more. She’d believed there might be a clue, buried somewhere in the lecture. It kept her awake at night, mentally pouring over every word he’d said, lining them up with the things she already ‘knew’ about the Maiden.

The mountains seemed the least-risky bet, and they looked in every cave they could locate on their map. All, to no avail.

It was so maddening that she had been inclined, several times, to give up altogether. Lucky for Jacquotte, her frustration led to the one thing she thought she would never do:

She wished.


	4. Chapter III

_ Chapter III; Act I, scene vi _

 

 

“ _Please, take me for yourself._

_Come for me and take me from my cell.”_

 

 

***

 

Desires are tricky, finicky things; the moral of many tales seems to be cautioning exactly that. No warning can prepare a person properly, for when the time comes and there is so much as a hint that all their dreams can come true, that person will dream to the moon and back. Imaginations go wild, wants run amok.

Jacquotte simply wished to find the Maiden. She was not a means to an end; the Maiden was the end, herself.

Tiny technicalities such as that one were why the Wishing Maiden had been lost for the past hundred years.

 

***

 

 

“ _Please, take me for yourself._

_We’ll run from here; I promise, I won’t tell.”_

 

 

***

 

Exhaustion weighed down on them heavily, the only reason for keeping themselves awake being the preparations for the night. Bron, unscathed compared to the rest, was piling together firewood as Sly worked on igniting a spark onto the pile of tinder Grete had sulkily piled. Jacquotte merely kept still, leg extended while Lyall – red-faced, she would have been a fool, blind, or both not to notice – wrapped a shallow wound above her knee. One of the Hunting parties had whipped a heavy stone at her legs, and while it had done little more than cause a nasty scrape, she was less than pleased. A little lower, and she may have lost her mobility due to a shattered kneecap. Needless to say, he had been dealt with…perhaps not in a terribly balanced way. No one of the Red Quintet had batted an eye over her idea of proportionate retribution, and a woman so fixated hardly registered guilt over conquering obstacles.

“That ought to keep it clean,” Lyall murmured, more to himself. “Feel alright?”

“Fantastic.”

Wisely, he didn’t ask anything more, realizing almost anything might goad her when she was in such a sour mood. Their choice of camp was harshly scenic, a solid day’s worth of travel from a backwater mountain town. They had no accommodations, no food or water nearby to their knowledge, and the stars partially blotted out by the fog and mountain peaks on the horizon… The potential for danger wasn’t so exciting, anymore, and instead just made the situation feel all the more tiresome.

The sparks caught, and a fire came to life. Lyall moved more towards the warmth, only in part to give the ringleader some space. Privately, it was appreciated; Jacquotte simply lacked the will, tonight, to feign cheer and was grateful that no one was forcing her to.

Grete was grumping enough for them all, and Sly wasn’t far behind. The two of them continuously griped about their sore feet and shoulders, and having to sleep on the cold, hard ground; Bron eventually managed to silence them with a particularly vexed look.

Sharing their rations between them, the quiet rumble of conversation remained cautiously subdued right up until three of the five had fallen asleep. Bron appeared just as worn as Jacquotte felt, but gave her a nod.

“You ought to sleep,” she recommended. “Rest long enough to get your mind off of this chase, for a while.”

“It’s no good,” her eyes slid closed, nonetheless. “I dream of it.”

 

She did dream.

Not of the chase, but of the reward.

Several times over, Jacquotte’s slumbering mind had wandered towards what it would be like. The details were never clear, and she could not dream exactly of someone she had not seen.

But, that night…there she was. As beautiful as the tales had said, silvery curls cascading down her shoulders, skin as soft, white, and delicate as the clouds – she appeared fragile, as someone who had not seen the sun in years ought to look. There was more rose in her hair than to her cheeks, and eyes that may once have been a stunningly bright blue had grayed – still, they were no less lovely to look at.

If Jacquotte believed in any sort of celestial creature, she may have thought this young woman was one of them. She walked as she might have danced, with a seductive sway of her hips and a vulnerability to every step – like a foal learning to run. Tentative, curious, with a want in mind.

She wanted Jacquotte, and to please the Maiden before her, she would have gladly given anything.

 

***

 

 

“ _Please, take me for yourself._

_Anywhere away from you is hell…”_

 

 

***

 

She was looking upon the redhead with some emotion she couldn’t name – was it envy? Longing? Adoration…? – and tangled her fingers in the vivid strands, gently combing it through and kissing her sweetly.

“Find me,” softly, she breathed against Jacquotte’s lips. “Come find me…”

 

***

 

 

“ _Please, take me for yourself._

_Hold me dear and fall under my spell.”_

-          The Wishing Maiden’s plea.

 

 

***

 

She caught Jacquotte’s lips again.

They met, re-met, would not part until both were so breathless they ached. All the while, the Wishing Maiden drew her in closer, whispered alongside every exhale, a steady stream of implorations. She needed no further temptation – not really – but did not turn her away.

Strangely, she could have sworn she felt the softness of her as though it were real. Taste lingered on her lips, new, and clean; like rainwater, but too warm and comforting.

Jacquotte had forgotten that she was dreaming, and not even when the pale-haired beauty slipped out of her dress, or when she deftly worked the shackles of Jacquotte’s armor free, did it dawn on her. It was too vivid to be a product of her mind, fixation or not. The Maiden undid each buckle as easy as breathing, never taking the time to ask if this was what she wanted; it was in her nature, to know what she was yearning for.

“Come find me,” she begged, all the while. “Please…”

“Tell me how.” Jacquotte touched. Anywhere, everywhere, but favoring her curves. She could not tell if she was being drawn into kisses, or doing so entirely independently. More importantly, she didn’t care.

“You’re on the right path,” lying back, she beckoned Jacquotte closer. “A short ways past the mountains are the remnants of a town, long since dead…at the edge of the town, there is a well, and by the well, a great tree.”

“An inkling of truth to every rumor,” Jacquotte muttered, and leaned in close to kiss her deeply. As much as she needed to know…within a dream, she had no concept of time. They had forever to talk; this craving was immediate.

The Maiden seemed to know better than she, pressed a hand gently to her collar and pushing her back just slightly, “Yes. The tree sapped the water from the well; it dried, and the people withered. It was all so long ago…”

“Let us have the present and the future,” Jacquotte purred. “I’ve never been one to think of the past.”

“Heed me, or we’ll have no future.”

With reluctance, her ministrations paused.

“If you swear to me, first, that you will not deliver me to Prince Caietanus…” the Maiden spoke with her lips pressed to Jacquotte’s pulse, but her words were still clear as a bell. “Promise me that you will keep me, make me _yours_ , and I will tell you how I can be freed…”

At this, Jacquotte was the one to hesitate, murmuring slowly, “I made an oath – he holds nothing other than our gold captive, but Grete, and the others… They would never forgive me. We would have to flee Felicitie immediately…”

“We would manage,” her hands implored as sweetly as her voice. They drifted low, sweeping down Jacquotte’s thighs, coaxing her closer overtop her weaker body. “They would come to forgive you. Am I not worth taking the risk…?”

“There aren’t many risks I would not take.”

“Then take this one, for me…”

Jacquotte looked into her eyes; she could not tell why they shined so brightly. All she knew for certain was that she had to say…

“I swear to you. I will not deliver you to Caietanus.”

The smile Jacquotte was given wiped away any remnants of doubt. “I am chained to the roots, at the bottom of the well. They are so overgrown, they blot out the sun – they are strong, and I am frail. My chains cannot be cut – they key is long gone – but sever the roots…”

“And I’ll have you freed,” slowly, Jacquotte nodded her head. The Maiden’s slender arms twined around her shoulders.

“Yes…” she sighed contentedly. “You will have me.”

That was the end of any conversation; no more words were necessary.

 

***

 

 

“ _There’s so much I’ve missed,_

_Leaving you un-kissed._

_I promise you bliss,_

_For I’ve finally found my wish.”_

-          Jacquotte’s truth.

 

 

***

 

At the first light of dawn, she awoke with every detail of the night’s fantasy in her head.

She had been wholly renewed; no injury was given a second thought, and the tiredness that had begun to pull at her steps had been sloughed off. Knowing what she did – and it was no regular dream, she  _knew_ it to be a vision – Jacquotte charted their route through the mountain pass and urged them on from dawn ‘til dusk.

The days seemed short, now that she had a destination in mind. She was not visited in her sleep again, but now that she was so close, she didn’t require the motivation (which is not to say it wouldn’t have been appreciated.)

The ghost town the Maiden had spoken of gave off a cold air before they had even reached it. Dank, desolate, but dry as a bone picked clean; it must have been abandoned by those who didn’t perish, and in their hurry to leave, the former inhabitants had abandoned the bodies.

Every house looked eerily normal – they were built solid enough that time had been generous, overall, though it was jarringly easy to push a door off the hinges, and the outer walls had begun to warp. It had been so long that the town had been shriveling that they could only imagine the smell of rot, the phantom of it hanging in the air like a threat. Grete nosed inside of every house and unabashedly inspected every dried skeleton, but found nothing of value – the way her shoulders hunched made Jacquotte think all the more strongly of a vulture.

Sly wasn’t much better, playing around with anything he happened to pick up – once he began to juggle the brownish skull of what had to be a cat, he was kneed in the gut and forced to be still.

“Perhaps this place fell to ruin _because_ of the Wishing Maiden,” Bron mused, physically steering Sly by the small of his back. He didn’t appear impressed with the arrangement, but it seemed to be the only way to keep him from misbehaving too terribly.

“Do you mean someone wished for this?” Lyall questioned, a dark frown creasing his face.

“Perhaps not. Perhaps so – a wish gone wrong, and maybe someone was just cruel enough…” Bron shook her head. “I meant, though, perhaps this is due to the Maiden being kept here.”

“Condemnation for keeping her to themselves, you think?”

Inadvertently, Lyall was twisting the knife before Jacquotte had a chance to plunge it into her comrades’ backs – Grete, in particular. She still wasn’t sure how to approach the idea of telling them she had no intention, anymore, of keeping her word to the prince.

The lawmen would never stop coming for them…

‘ _Unless I were to wish it so.’_

Something about the idea repulsed her, though…

“Maybe they believed her to be a witch, or maybe they just didn’t want anyone else using her power,” Bron theorized. “Maybe the Maiden wished for this, herself.”

“Do you think she can? Grant her own wishes, I mean?”

“The stories never said.”

When they’d meandered halfway across the town, the spoken-of tree came into view; Jacquotte all but sprinted the rest of the way, leaving the others to chase after her, abandoning their conversation.

Roots had burst out of the ground, stemming far like veins throughout the crisp, dried grass. If they’d hollowed out the trunk, all five of them could have fit within – comfortably – and it stretched so tall that it was a wonder they’d been able to see the sky, at all. It was as though it was competing with the mountains, on the town’s other side…and, to nature’s credit, it appeared to be giving the immense hills a run for their money.

Not shockingly, Bron and Sly were the first to catch up, staggered breathing taken away again as their gazes steadily went farther and farther up; from the look on her face, even Bron felt tiny in comparison.

“Must be centuries old,” the pickpocket marveled, eyebrows raised high. “This is what’s trapped her, you said?”

“The roots, yes,” Jacquotte drew her saber, trying to look down into the blackness of the well. It was crude, no stone walls built around the insides; instead, whoever had dug it seemed to think wooden planks would serve well enough, only to be proven wrong once they’d rotted through and the stronger tree managed to burst through them into the water. Water that was long gone, now; it was as dry as a desert, as far as Jacquotte could tell.

‘ _No telling how far down it goes, exactly… I could see if the rope will support my weight, but there’s no telling for certain that it will take_ _ **hers**_ _, as well. Assuming it isn’t so old and worn that it won’t snap at the first tug.’_

Jacquotte didn’t really want to test it – given the state of everything else, she could certainly guess that it wouldn’t.

“We’ll need different rope, and a lot of it,” she sighed, hand resting against the wooden beam, from which an old leather-crafted bucket hanged. “If there was ever a time I wished I was your size, Grete…”

The other two had caught up in time for the little brunette to hear that, and it brought a look of distaste to her face. Lyall, however, looked alarmed, exclaiming, “You can’t mean you’re going down there, yourself…”

“Of course I’m going down there myself,” she dismissed his concern. “I wouldn’t have any of you do it.”

“But if something were to go wrong…!”

“Then it will happen to me, as it ought to,” quickly, Jacquotte was unclasping the leather plates and dropping whatever else might drag her down. “If you’re so concerned, find me rope. A lot of it.”

Lyall dropped to his knees, heaving the weighty pack from his shoulders and begin to rummage through almost frantically. Jacquotte paid little heed, peering more closely at the darkness in consideration.

Seeking a stone on the ground, she knelt to pick one up, and dropped it into the black.

A dull thud. Much sooner than she would have wagered, and too soft of a sound. It had struck a blanket of roots…

It was tempting to just climb over the side and drop.

“When can I be expecting that rope?” her impatience was welling, and she heard Lyall fumble with something. From Sly’s subtle swearing, she could gather that he had loaned his assistance; in the meanwhile, Bron approached and stuck her face by Jacquotte’s, looking down the well as though there was a deadly foe waiting at the bottom.

“I know better than to think you could be talked out of this, now that we’re so close,” she muttered, “and I know better than to think you’re helpless, if something goes wrong. I do ask-…”

“That I be careful?”

“That you be smart,” Bron corrected. “Plenty that could go wrong, with a Wishing Maiden around. If you get down there in one piece, then it’s just the beginning of the danger…”

“We’ll manage, like we always do.”

“Found the rope!” Sly declared. “This ought to do it, eh?”

Jacquotte looked back at the length he’d drawn from their supplies – it looked long enough, she thought, but would it hold two people…?

‘ _I’ll have to risk it.’_

“That will suffice,” she nodded once, taking the end and tying it around her belt. “I have to cut my way through the roots – if I’m not out by nightfall, pull me back up.”

“How will we know when you’re trying to come back up?” Bron gave the rope a hearty tug, checking how securely Jacquotte had tied it.

“I’ll give five tugs. Anything less than that, you can assume is accidental,” when Bron looked satisfied, she approached the well and handed off the rest of the rope to the behemoth. “Anchor me, would you?”

She nodded. “Good luck.”

Jacquotte didn’t respond; the simply hoisted herself over the side, and dropped.

 

_ Scene vii _

 

The well was deeper than Jacquotte could have anticipated; the tree roots, thicker and more aggressive than the flesh she was more accustomed to slashing through. Her saber would slice them through, and they would recoil like a sentient creature reacting to pain. Several times over, she found herself caught by the ankle or her hair, and she was becoming so irritated with the process that she found herself tempted, several times, to go about this in a different way.

No one would think less of her if she gave five sharp tugs on the rope, was pulled back onto solid ground, and proceeded to drop oil-soaked flaming cloths down the well.

If only there weren’t a  _person_ at the bottom, it would make for a considerably easier plan on action.

The most aggravating part of it was, every time she thought she was done, she scaled her way a little further down and found another thick weave of roots. They were fewer and farther apart, as she went down, but as thick as the branches above ground. To cut them out of her way was akin to sawing through a narrow log or even a limb.

At least she was being very much assured that she’d made the right decision, she thought sardonically. Lyall and Grete weren’t physically strong enough, Bron would have been too weighty, and Sly wouldn’t have persevered; it would have had to be her, no matter what the situation.

Still…she was so sore, tired, and thirsty – she hadn’t prepared enough, she felt, nothing had properly readied her for what a trial this would be, when it had sounded so simple in theory…

And the odor; the further she descended, the sharper and more foul it became. Twice she had to stop and hold back her retching, gagging on the thick, pungent air; common sense had warned her that she would be descending into a dungeon, but she was beginning to worry the Maiden had died and begun to rot at the bottom of the well.

Another root was ripped in two by her blade, and the rustle of falling dirt grated against her ears. Everything echoed, down here, and felt twice as loud…

Something – a pebble, or smaller – hit the ground a few feet below.

Jacquotte went still. She had nothing to throw, no way to be  _entirely certain_ … She only had the dim light her eyes seemed to be imagining, having adjusted to the blackness by now.

She looked down, past the roots.

It looked solid. It looked like the ground.

‘ _I’ll go mad if I have much further to go. Just…jump.’_

There was nothing else for it; Jacquotte sheathed her sword and dropped.

It was a shorter ways to fall than she had even expected; her feet met the ground hard, nearly knocked off balance by the force of landing. She gripped at nothing, but managed not to fall nonetheless.

Behind her, there was a sharp intake of breath.

She could make out every feature, if she stared hard enough. The Maiden, just as Jacquotte had dreamed her; delicate, soft curves, though her whitened curls fell limp and unwashed, too thin to be healthy and dressed in rags, stained and sodden. She wasn’t pleasant to look upon, in this state, but Jacquotte could tell that she was still a beauty beneath it all. The Maiden didn’t look to be conscious, eyes only half-open in a haze, at best.

Bending low, Jacquotte tilted her chin upwards, then to the side. She was given no response.

“Wake up,” she whispered, without knowing why. “Come, now…”

The Maiden stirred, but barely; she only slumped further forward, possibly involuntarily, like a limp doll being pulled forward by gravity. Jacquotte took her by the shoulder and shook her gently, but she still would not wake.

‘… _One thing is certainly worth trying.’_

“I wish you would wake.”

Something passed over the Maiden’s face – it was as though Jacquotte had slapped her across the face – and her eyes opened.

She screamed.

Jarred, as she hadn’t expected the shrill sound, Jacquotte clamped her hand over her mouth; her lips were badly chapped, she noted, to the point where even parting them had to have been painful. The flesh had split, blood dribbling down her chin from beneath Jacquotte’s hand.

“Quiet now…!” she urged the Maiden, speaking loud enough to be heard over the high echo. Every sound reverberated off the walls, and she was certain that her ears would bleed. “Shh… I haven’t come to harm you, you’re safe… It’s alright…”

Slowly, her screaming died down. Her eyes were wide, and though it had to be a trick of the light, they appeared to almost glow – like tiny moons. They followed Jacquotte’s every move as she began to saw through the roots – they were thicker in girth than the Maiden’s arms.

“My name is Jacquotte,” she told her, as she worked. “You came to me in a dream. Do you remember?”

The Maiden stared for a long moment, then gave a quick little shake of her head.

“Perhaps that wasn’t real,” the redhead murmured, though part of her refused to believe that; how else had she known exactly what the Maiden looked like? Where to find her?

“Do you have a name?”

“Asha.”

Given her reaction to her, Jacquotte had assumed the Maiden would response in time, if she did at all – instead, it was so prompt that she had to pause.

“…Asha,” she repeated. “Well, then, Asha, let me tell you… A lot of people have been looking for you, for a very long time.”

The Wishing Maiden’s head sank back down, her chained wrist falling to her lap as Jacquotte cut her free.

“…I know.”

 

***

 

 

“ _Please, let me hide away._

_It’s better that I don’t see light of day.”_

-          Asha’s truth.


	5. Chapter IV

_ Chapter IV; Act II, scene i _

 

 

Jacquotte had not allowed any of them to assist with Asha’s bathing. She was listless and as dependant as a child, and hadn’t been able to bear even the light of the stars; able to see more clearly, Jacquotte took note of the film over her oceanic eyes, and made no demands that she keep them open.

She had sent Sly and Grete back into town, with the instruction that they beat the dust out of any clothing they found, give it a thorough washing, and bring it to them in haste. As it so happened, their hurrying was unnecessary, as it took hours to help Asha clean and dry herself. When they had finished, though, she was lovelier than Jacquotte remembered from her vision. Sweet-faced, garbed in burgundy and white, but silent and sad.

But, as she had figured out, Asha had no knowledge of who Jacquotte was. The vision that had come to her had not been mutually shared; it felt like a dirty secret, but it bore no weight against the redhead’s conscience. Nevertheless, she had staked a claim over the Maiden, and had no intention of letting Asha go after all the trouble she’d gone to in order to find her.

Now…she simply had to find a way to tell her so.

After a small argument, Jacquotte had decided they would take shelter for at least a day and a night in one of the decrepit old houses – “She needs the time to adjust; we don’t even know if she can walk, after all those years, much less stay on a horse,” – and had sought out the sturdiest left standing, declaring it to be Asha’s temporary new home.

Again, the others were expected to find other accommodations. Sly and Bron were less than impressed at being chucked to the wayside in her priorities, but Grete seized upon the opportunity to pick over the town for gold a bit more, and Lyall never tended to question.

As Asha picked half-heartedly at the meal Bron had prepared, before departing, Jacquotte simply observed her in silence. The way she held herself; curled inwards, as though afraid. A distant expression, as though her mind has thousands of miles away. Hands shaking whenever she lifted anything, even if it was as dainty and light as a crust of bread.

“How did you survive down there, for so long…?” Jacquotte murmured. If Asha heard her, she didn’t respond. She was beginning to question whether or not the Maiden was capable of speech, at all – perhaps the earlier words she’d exchanged had been her imagination?

She was so similar and so different than the seductress who’d visited her, that one night.

“Come now, I know you can hear me,” Jacquotte spoke a little louder, more clearly, in case she was wrong.

She twitched, slightly, and the leader of the Quintet was inclined to think that meant she’d heard her, indeed. With a faint, victorious grin, she leaned forward with her elbows resting on her knees, expression reading, ‘Caught you.’

“If I’m pulling at stitches, you tell me,” she watched her carefully, “but I can’t help but wonder.”

Asha nibbled nervously at her bread, still staring with her foggy eyes into nothing. The seconds ticked by, leaving an empty quiet hanging awkwardly between them, and Jacquotte realized she was disinclined to give her an answer.

“Very well then,” as though challenged, she leaned back with her arms spreading wide, knees parting as well. “I’ll just guess, shall I?”

The Maiden looked vaguely nervous, but didn’t respond. An open invitation.

“There was a wish,” she began, but found she could speak no further when a cold hand pressed to her lips.

Such tiny fingers. Pale, breakable.

“Please, don’t,” Asha looked fearful. “Don’t speak that word. I beg you.”

Slowly, Jacquotte nodded. The hand was drawn away.

“Are you…alright?”

To her displeasure, Asha had gone silent again; she barreled on with her hypothesis, as though she hadn’t been interrupted to begin with. “Someone – maybe yourself, maybe someone else – used the ‘w’ word to make you undying. There would always be…‘w’-words as long as you live, and you live forever. Is that right?”

“…In a sense,” she mumbled.

“Care to correct me with specifics?”

“No.”

Concealing a scowl, Jacquotte hauled her chair over the softened wood of the floor to get closer to the Maiden, quirking one eyebrow and drawling, “Come, now, I’d like to know you better. If you won’t answer, why not tell me something?”

Asha’s eyes closed; relief flickered over her features as the dim light of the moon, outside, and the flicker of Jacquotte’s lamp was hidden from her. If she was considering what to say, Jacquotte lost patience before she could find the words.

“Why won’t you look at me? You’ve avoided looking my way since the well.”

Asha’s voice was distant, “You hurt to look at.”

“Am I hideous?” she laughed.

“…No,” she was even more hushed, now. “Charm and wit, they’ve sewn it into your mouth. It shines out through your cheeks.”

She sounded so far removed from herself that the statement nearly didn’t come off as strange – it was as though she were talking in her sleep. Jacquotte inspected as much of her face as she could see.

“I want you to look at me,” she was careful in choosing her words. “I’d like you to see me, as I see you.”

“And how do you see me?”

“Well,” a wry smile wrestled its way to her lips, despite her best efforts to suppress it, “I understand certain things are expected, when a rogue rescues a pretty girl from captivity, such as…looks of adoration, followed by tokens expressing those shy little urges…”

“Rescue?” she echoed faintly. It seemed she hadn’t caught a word after that.

“I only tease…” Jacquotte trailed off. Still, Asha hadn’t once looked her way, and it was beginning to bother her deeply. “May I ask you something, Asha?”

Every time her name was spoken, she seemed to come alive, a little. Her chin lifted, head tilting in Jacquotte’s direction even though her gaze didn’t waver from the unknowable distance.

“If I were to… You know,” she waved a hand, as though the gesture could supply the word she was avoiding, “to correct your sight… You can’t do it on your own, can you?”

“No,” she seemed to answer automatically, voice lifting towards the end of the simple word as though confused. 

“So, would you like me to?” Jacquotte offered. “Day has not even broken – if your eyes hurt _now_ , it will be much worse, at dawn. They might even be damaged beyond natural repair, if I don’t you-know-what for it.”

Worrying her lower lip, Asha eventually tilted her head towards Jacquotte, fogged pupils still directed away from her. Still, the fact that she’d turned at all was a start.

“…Alright.”

“Then I wish you could see clearly.”

The effect was instantaneous, and utterly fascinating to watch. It was like watching a cloud collapse in on itself, receding into the depths of her pupils. Irises of blue-grey were brighter, now, and her gaze began to flicker about wildly.

‘ _Was she half-blind, before? She must have been at least that.’_

So many emotions were running over Asha’s face that a single emotion didn’t seem capable of settling. Her hand had curled in the fabric of her shirt, clutching at her chest as though physically pained…and for a moment, that was the most prevalent picture; those pretty, delicate features, contorted in agony as though in her death throes. Unthinkingly, Jacquotte took the Maiden’s other hand in both of her own – on both wrists, the metal cuffs and chains dangled, as they’d been unable to pick the locks no matter how they tried.

When the pain passed, every other feeling seemed to take its place; fear, sadness, wonder. Briefly, a glimmer of joy and relief.

Then, it was impossible to tell  _what_ she felt. Asha simply stared at her, grey gathering in the corners of her eyes and spilling over – was she crying the blindness out…?

“…Thank you,” she murmured, and the silence didn’t feel so thick anymore. “No one has ever asked before.”

“Never asked before making a you-know-what?” she tried to laugh casually, but she was still replaying what she’d just seen in her mind’s eye. “Seems a bit rude… People ought to be offering you tribute and begging for your time, prostrate at your feet…”

Asha chuckled weakly, “Perhaps so…but, that has never been the way.”

“What has the way been, then?” Jacquotte inquired. Absently, she grabbed for the sack of rations she’d put together, Lyall having left it with the two of them before departing. Finding a flask – one of metal, containing a heavy mead – she unscrewed the cap and kicked her heels up, propping her feet on the cracked dining room table.

Asha looked scandalized only for a second. She dismissed it easily enough, still watching Jacquotte like a rabbit surveying an owl; unsure whether or not she was a threat, ready to bolt if she drew any closer.

“Surely you can at least deny the particularly rude people a you-know-what,” Jacquotte tipped back the flask, smacking her lips slightly as the liquid burned down her throat, settling warmly in her stomach. “Or, warp what they’ve wished for – you hear tales, like that.”

“I cannot ‘warp’ their wishes,” Asha didn’t seem as distressed when the other woman slipped and used the word, wrapped up in her head again. “They’re warped, already. They come to me that way. I cannot-… I do not…impact, how they come out. I cannot deny, I cannot change…”

The flask’s rim rested against Jacquotte’s lower lip. Slowly, she frowned, “Then it’s true? Every wi-… If someone voices their desire, you grant it the moment you hear it?”

“It touches my ears, and the magic happens,” she confirmed quietly, and as she spoke, she began to rise from her chair, hands resting on anything and everything within her grasp to help bring herself to her feet. “I need not be awake, nor need I be willing. I need only serve my purpose…”

Suddenly, she laughed – a near-panicked, silvery little sound. “Rescued,” she said ruefully. “You rescued me.”

That was all it took to taint the quiet, again, and when the stillness returned, Jacquotte found she could hardly stand it. Asha had inadvertently left her with questions, and they wrestled in the pit of her stomach, warring with the alcohol that was meant to soothe. The evening had not gone as she’d anticipated, and those expectations were feeling more and more unrealistic by the moment.

That laugh…

“Before I take myself to bed, can you tell me, Jacquotte, who you thought you were rescuing me from?”

Hazel eyes tore away from the dwindling lantern-light – she hadn’t even realized she had been staring at it so – her brows knitted together. The resulting tricks her eyes were playing left odd dots of greens and pinks on the Maiden’s face, where she was looking, now. She could scarcely make out her expression.

“What do you mean by ‘whom’…?” she knew she sounded perplexed, but couldn’t care to hide it. “Anyone who could have done that to you would be long-dead, I knew – it was the situation, your misery…”

“You couldn’t know of my misery,” her voice was sweet.

Jacquotte lowered the flask. “…You chained yourself to the bottom of the well.”

Asha walked in a manner similar to a deer taking her first few steps. She glanced back at Jacquotte, then quickly away, needing to watch her own bare feet – one step, then another, making her way to the cot Jacquotte had nobly offered.

It didn’t seem so generous, now.

“Better chains to wear than the ones I find up here,” Asha sighed, and sank down onto the low, dusty mattress.

It was rare that Jacquotte found herself at a loss for words, uncomfortably and utterly baffled.

“You ought to have not opened the box,” were the final words to leave Asha’s lips, before she fell asleep.


	6. Chapter V

_ Chapter V; Act II, scene ii _

 

 

Somehow, despite anyone’s intentions – Jacquotte’s, when she took the Maiden from the well, or Asha’s, whose aims were cloudy and difficult to discern – there had been a shift, in the night. Something had changed in the way the air filled a man’s lungs, changed in the way the sun stretched down rays of sun to brush the blushing cheeks of young women. Every emotion was running on high, with the grey areas in between dropping out of use like a collapsed bridge. Mania had spread, and then spiked high; every half-hearted or impulsive hope that every individual had was running rampant, climbing to unrealistic heights, and the results were verging on catastrophic.

Across the sea, on the continent of Rayia, several countries declared that they were going to war for no better reason than for want of the glory that came with being a hero, on the battlefield.

Closer to home – just to the North of their continent, Desidrius – the economy of their neighbor, Midsuvi, had hit a steady decline, and people had begun starving in the streets. Productivity had hit a startling low as people left their jobs, their homes, their families, to pursue flights of fancy. Travelers took to the seas, artists took up pens and paints, and no one seemed to notice or care what the rest of the world was doing unless they were pursuing their loves with an ardor that verged on total obsession.

Libsmene had been razed. The Wish Hunters had practically torn the entire town down, stripping houses to nothing more than scrap and taking  _everything_ they had to offer. Knowledge, their food, their homes, the clothes off their backs. In little time at all, Libsmene had been picked down to the bones, like a carcass swarmed by locusts.

As for Felicitie, the city had been soundly split in two. There were the desperate, who pounded on the castle doors, convinced they could gain favor with their prince – maidens who wished to be his consort if they could not be his Queen, men who wished to be knights, and sometimes the two overlapped. The other half seemed to see themselves on the throne, and created a stir. Riots became frequent occurrences, and the lawmen lifted not a finger to stop them until forced…assuming, of course, that they hadn’t joined in or started the fuss, themselves.

This occurred only within days of the Wishing Maiden being set free, and the Red Quintet knew not a thing about it. They were lucky, perhaps, that keeping Asha in their presence seemed to subdue that wildness…

For the most part.

The burden of that dream was beginning to weigh more heavily on Jacquotte’s mind with every passing hour, for it was made steadily clearer that Asha had no awareness or recollection of her seduction. She was starting to wonder if she was mad, as so many wild stories about her seemed to incorporate.

The following morning, Jacquotte only spent an hour or two directly in the Maiden’s presence, trying to compare every facet to the seductive young woman who had come to her in her sleep. In physical appearance, every last detail was the same – the gentle curls, her eyelashes, her cheeks. Only human, she’d memorized her as she helped Asha bathe, and found that her vision had even captured her exact curves.

Her demeanor was where she changed completely; Asha could scarcely speak above a whisper, and seemed to fight with herself before saying anything to begin with. Unlike her dream-self – who may have been at a distance, but beckoned Jacquotte closer – she was only far off, posture closed-in and wary. Her eyes would never meet those of a speaker, and sometimes it was difficult to tell whether or not she could hear, at all.

Jacquotte knew that she could, though, because any time anything that even faintly resembled the word ‘wish’ was spoken, she would flinch. Twitching and shielding herself, as though expecting a barrage, she would turn her torso away and sometimes close her eyes, waiting, and the tension would only leave her if no demand was spoken for at least a few solid minutes.

She still acted as though she were a prisoner. Knowing that she had been the one holding herself hostage at the bottom of the well, Jacquotte had to wonder if she still was, in a sense.

Hence, she came to the conclusion that something needed to be done about her shackles.

Jacquotte quite literally helped Asha sit down for dinner, as she still had trouble not just collapsing under her own weight when she finally allowed her knees to give out. They were keeping her meals as tiny and as bland as they could make them, for she couldn’t yet tolerate much else after starving for so long. Rather than sit across from her as she’d done the night before, though, Jacquotte pulled her chair forward, the heavy legs dully scraping over the floorboards with an incredibly unpleasant sound.

“Sorry,” she apologized immediately, catching the way Asha’s expression soured; after being stuck in the silence, Jacquotte gathered that everything felt twice as loud as it truly was. “If you can eat one-handed, I thought I might work on those cuffs.”

“Work on them?” Asha echoed dubiously.

Removing the thick belt she wore, Jacquotte unclasped one of the pouches wedged between two dagger-sheaths, withdrawing several thin metal tools. “I can’t boast the same talent Sly has when it comes to picking locks, but I’m handy,” she grinned. “They can’t be comfortable, so I thought I’d give it a try.”

“…That’s a nice thought,” Asha angled her body away, turning more towards her bowl; the meat had been boiled, which wasn’t at all to Jacquotte’s taste, but the mild broth and soft meat seemed to be how she preferred it.

Plucking a slender length of metal that she favored from the table, she lightly turned over her wrist and immediately frowned. The lock had been plugged by thick glass – or, at least, that was how it appeared. Appraising it carefully, Jacquotte furrowed her brow in thought before her eyes flickered back to the Maiden’s face.

“Was this cuff locked with a glass key?”

“They both were, yes,” gingerly, she picked up her wooden spoon with the hand that was still free, looking almost slightly ashamed of herself. “Two cuffs, with different locks, each made to fit only one key – the keys, made of glass, to break after they were turned, sealing the cuffs forever.”

“…Very thorough,” Jacquotte murmured, but was undeterred. Instead of beginning with the lock-picking tool, she set it down and let her fingers dance over each sheath, locating a dagger that was much like the sort Grete tended to use. Upon noticing how Asha had frozen with the spoon hovering by her lips, she laughed. “Not to worry – I’m going to see if I can wrestle out the glass with this. I’ll be mindful not to hurt you.”

“It isn’t me I worry for,” she murmured, and tipped the broth past her lips.

“You worry for _me?_ ” Jacquotte failed to hide her surprise. “That’s kind of you.”

“No more than I would worry for anyone,” the lightness to her tone seemed forced; it was difficult for Jacquotte to tell whether or not Asha truly meant that, or if she was simply covering her tracks. She seemed most wary around the Quintet’s leader, of all people, despite having spent the most time in her presence.

Asking why would need to be something she eased Asha into, Jacquotte mused. Carefully, she began inspecting the glass-plugged lock for the thinnest of cracks to start chipping or easing the broken key out.

“I must confess – though, I was planning on being careful, regardless,” she was quick to throw in, “I wasn’t sure how much care was _necessary_ , with you. You were down there for a century, or so the stories go… You wouldn’t be able to recall how long it was exactly, would you?”

Asha was staring down at her bowl, gently blowing on another spoonful of what was little more than hot water. “…No… Time was difficult to pin down.”

Her choice of words brought forth a vivid image from Jacquotte’s dream to her mind, but she shoved it back to recesses of her brain.

“You weakened, but survived,” the redhead mused. Cautiously, she was attempting to create a chip in the glass. “Do you need to eat as I do, then? Or is it merely a luxury…?”

“A luxury, I suppose. I wouldn’t die.”

“But for strength,” she kept at it, resisting the urge to look directly at her. Strangely, she could feel the other woman easing into the routine Jacquotte had set for the night, and she’d begun to relax; she wasn’t so harshly turned away.

“I… Yes, I need to eat, or I would be even weaker. I honestly don’t know how I managed to take a single step, when you took me from the well,” she murmured. Softened, her voice was even more fragile, but there was a certain familiar trace to it – a demure beckoning, inviting Jacquotte a little closer to listen. She pulled herself closer, perched more towards the edge of her seat, and sloped her back to gaze more closely at the metal binding around her wrist.

“You sleep, I’ve observed,” Jacquotte began to smile. “You’re as human as I, so… Why such a burden placed on you, I have to wonder.”

Asha’s spoon dropped with a clatter against the rim of the bowl, both hands retracting as though stung. Jacquotte’s reflexes were thankfully sharp enough to flip the skinny blade, avoiding grazing her skin.

“Oh – forgive me, I didn’t mean… Were you cut?” Asha’s eyes were wide.

“No,” she reassured her. “I startled you, did I?”

“Not startled, I just-… Never mind,” pink was starting to dust her cheeks. “It’s nothing.”

Lightly, she held her hand back out towards Jacquotte, who accepted it and resumed picking at the jammed lock.

“Do you know why you are…they way you are?” Jacquotte asked without much build-up. “I can’t help but be curious. You don’t need to answer, if I’m prying.”

With only a little difficulty, she got the tapered tip of the blade wedged in between a narrow space.

“… The truth is…tricky,” Asha picked up her spoon again, but only swirled the broth around in a languid whirl. “Subjective. My birth…it could be a beautiful story.”

“One less often told,” Jacquotte’s eyebrows raised slightly.

“It was my mother. I did _have_ a mother, we all do,” the Maiden stared down, unseeing, at her bland meal. “I know some used to whisper that I was a gift, sent down by the gods, but…that isn’t true. A father, though, I can’t say for certain – if I had one, I did not know him. My mother told me, she had been sure that she could never bear a child of her own. She’d been wed as a young woman, then abandoned as an older one… In all her years of trying with her husband, she never bore a child. All she’d ever wanted was to be a mother, and so…”

“She made a-…” Jacquotte considerately trailed off.

Asha nodded once, “Yes, and whether the stories the people tell are true – that the gods took pity on her and gave me to her, as a gift – or hers is true… I was born. Her story only differs in that…she believes that I was born to fulfill  _her_ dream. She said to me all the time, as a child, that I had within me the potential to make everyone around me happy. Perhaps that just became…skewed.”

“You resent it,” Jacquotte didn’t sound surprised.

“I cannot resent my gift,” Asha denied. “This is what I am.”

“…What if you could be something – some _one_ – else?”

Weakly, Asha laughed, “You aren’t the first to start talking about ‘what if’s and ‘if only’s. It’s best to let it lie…”

Jacquotte paused what she was doing, careful not to remove the knife after it had taken her so much effort to work it in to begin with. “I’ve never heard you laugh, before. It’s a beautiful sound.”

The blush on her cheeks glowed brighter, and Asha appeared a little lost, unsure of how to take the comment. Saving her from having to respond, she instead inquired, “Who was the first, then? To begin wondering those things?”

Asha was visibly relieved that Jacquotte had diverted the topic, but only for a moment. There was visible hesitation in her eyes, and perhaps to stall for time, she cradled another mouthful of broth in her spoon, slowly bringing it to her lips and lowering the spoon again once it was emptied.

“…His name was Willem,” she answered softly.

“Ah,” Jacquotte looked back down and redoubled her efforts to work the glass free. “There was a ‘he’.”

“Yes, but…it’s not what you think…”

“Would it matter if it was?” Jacquotte lifted her gaze at last, and was surprised to find that she was staring right into Asha’s eyes. Most shockingly, neither of them seemed to have any intention of looking away.

She took that stretching moment to search those eyes, trying to uncover whatever was buried there. In truth, she’d already gleaned more than she ever would have expected from a single conversation with the Maiden, but…she still thirsted for more. She wanted to know everything, inside and out, in every possible sense.

‘ _This fixation – I might call it love, but it’s quick.’_

Surely it wasn’t that.

The connection was greater than mere lust, however; of that much she was certain. She’d experienced probably more than her fair share of passionate affairs based on little more than mutual attraction and similar needs, but Asha…

It was beginning to create an ache in her chest, trying to define whatever it was that was going on in her head. It felt like trying to catch a bird with her bare hands; too quick to catch up to, too delicate to hold onto when, or if, she managed it…and she almost didn’t want to, for fear that it would peck her hands until they were raw and bleeding.

“I could not love Willem,” Asha finally spoke; she was so quiet that Jacquotte only realized she was speaking by the movement of her lips, and their stalemate was broken as her eyes flickered to them. “He knew. I’d told him so, from the moment he came to me, and I saw what he wanted above all else.”

Now that her gaze had come to rest on her lips, Jacquotte was finding it difficult to look anywhere else. With how close she was…

Asha turned her face away and muttered, “Your deepest desires are very similar to his.”

Jacquotte promptly moved back, but couldn’t hide a faint sort of smirk. “I would apologize, but I can’t control my wants any better than you could, I imagine,” she lowered her gaze back down to the lock, and immediately frowned. The slip in her focus had resulted in the knife’s point slipping out, leaving her precisely where she’d started. With a faint sigh, she placed the knife back on the table, deciding that if one of her tools was dismantled in the process of freeing the glass, it would be for the greater good. The thinner tool was easier to work with, but still required her to locate that narrow crevice again; she inspected it closely, brow furrowed faintly again.

“So, tell me about Willem,” she prompted, when the silence became too heavy to bear, again. “This love-struck man, pining after the legendary Maiden… There ought to be a ballad, if there isn’t one, already.”

“I would not know,” though she seemed to have lost her appetite entirely, Asha remained still and continued to toy anxiously with her wooden utensil. “Willem was…pure. He would have given all of himself, if he could, just to please me. He often tried. He would make outlandish claims and gestures, all very self-sacrificing, but when the time came…he had trouble being wholly selfless. He would not do the only thing I asked of him… Or, perhaps that is unfair. He _could not_ do what I asked.”

“What did you ask?” Jacquotte found herself intrigued.

“It isn’t important now,” she shook her head, but she lacked the dismissive note to her voice Jacquotte was coming to recognize. Instead, she sounded weary, as though the memory encumbered her so heavily that she might cry.

Though there were no tears, Jacquotte almost wanted to preemptively offer the young woman her shoulder to bury her face against, or a cloth to wipe her still-dry eyes.

“In the end, Willem could not deny me entirely,” she spoke distantly, as though telling someone else’s tale. “He saw what was to become of me, and feared it just as I did. People were coming from every continent to invade, wars were being fought in every place, families tearing each other apart – their own flesh and blood – for the sake of greed. Willem agreed to find me a place to hide, somewhere we thought I would never be found…”

“He helped you bind yourself down there,” Jacquotte summarized, her eyes faintly narrowed.

“He… _asked_ for shackles and chains, the strongest that ever had been or ever would be forged,” Asha’s eyes glanced towards the cuffs, “with two different locks that would only fit two different glass keys; he asked that when they turned the locks, they would break at the handle, so there would be no escape from them. I helped him with the phrasing… He then asked for a great, terrible tree to grow by the town’s well, asked that it would suck the water dry, and that the roots would grow so thick and strong that they could not be broken by hand or knife. I guess…that sword, of yours, fell outside the specifications.”

“I would say ‘live and learn’, but I’m quite glad for the loophole,” Jacquotte grinned. Asha didn’t smile back, looking only more saddened.

“It was difficult for Willem to leave me there. I felt his heart break, and it very nearly broke mine,” she bit her lip, worrying the softer skin there.

“Why should it break yours, if nothing ever happened between the two of you?”

“…I never said nothing happened,” Asha responded, reluctance catching at her consonants. For the first time since meeting face-to-face, she was the one intently scrutinizing Jacquotte’s expression, faint guilt etched into her own. Slowly, hazel eyes lifted, not quite looking at her.

“Oh, I see,” she said slowly. “…Isn’t that a little cruel? To indulge his fantasy when you could never love him the way he wanted?”

“Maybe it was,” she was chewing through her lip quite steadily, leaving little red swells behind. “Sometimes, though, the illusion is all someone really needs. How would you ever know whether or not someone’s love is real, if they seemed to be showing you the proof?”

“It isn’t the same,” Jacquotte let Asha’s wrist out of her grasp, flexing her stiff fingers. “I don’t think I could be convinced that some part of him didn’t know.”

“Maybe he did, but maybe he did not,” she didn’t appear ashamed, only preoccupied, which touched something in Jacquotte that left her feeling faintly uncomfortable. Did she honestly believe that she’d made Willem happier by lying to him, or had she been using him…?

Somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to ask. Restraint wasn’t something she’d often practiced in the past, and it almost struck her as strange, until it dawned on her that she’d done little  _other_ than hold herself back, in Asha’s presence.

Being so careful would drive her mad…and Asha was still biting her lip until it bled.

Both hands drifted around the Maiden’s long neck, drawing her forward and sealing her lips before either of them had much opportunity to understand what was happening. Jacquotte felt no regret, and Asha made no move to draw back; she was warmer to the touch than Jacquotte had anticipated.

Lingering shortly, she pulled away and murmured, “Were you only indulging me, just now?”

“What answer would you like to hear?” it was as though their roles had been reversed; in this area, Asha was the stronger one, searching Jacquotte’s eyes instead of the other way around. “Neither would really satisfy you, would it…?”

“One might please me more, but I suppose not, no. After all, you didn’t quite kiss back,” she sat back, and tried to refocus on picking the lock free of the glass. Now, though, it seemed a futile effort, more impossible of a task than finding the Wishing Maiden to begin with; she was tempted to laugh at herself, for trying.

 

_ Scene iii _

 

“We ought to be getting a move on, back to Felicitie. I’m amazed they haven’t set more of the lawmen after us, by now.”

“Perhaps they have, and they’ve simply yet to find us,” Jacquotte was polishing the blade of her saber, inspecting it with a critical eye as far from her face as she could hold it while still being able to judge. “I wouldn’t look all the way up here, would you?”

“It’s still a matter of time,” Bron snapped back, and her tone didn’t startle the other woman. Only a week ago, she never would have taken such a tone with the ringleader, but things were _different_ , she had noticed. Grete was half-mad from edginess, picking stones from the soil in the desperate hope they might be worth something. Sly had nothing to pilfer, and as such, his boredom had left him in an antagonistic haze. Lyall only seemed distant, dreaming, and he sighed like a schoolboy every time she spoke to him.

Jacquotte hadn’t observed any change in herself – but then, how would she?  _Why_ would she, when she was so unbelievably content? There was a part of her, niggling at her brain and crawling down her back, that was making her antsy. Staying in one place, especially one so dead and desolate, went against every part of her instincts…but she had not given up her pursuit. She was still active, just with a different target.

It was Asha’s affections she was chasing, now, rather than any quest. Her one and only true wish was with her day and night – she could want for nothing more.

Sadly, no one else seemed to understand that, and it certainly seemed to leave a sour taste in Bron’s mouth.

Asha was still too unsteady on her feet – she could hardly manage a straight line for too long before sinking to the ground as her legs gave out and the soles of her feet blistered. The only thing they hadn’t managed to find, for her, was a sturdy pair of shoes – nothing fit quite right, and it was more trouble trying to keep them on her feet than it was worth. Instead, Jacquotte had begun taking it upon herself to wrap the appendages each night, washing and winding cloth bandages around them and tying them off above her ankles.

They wouldn’t have a hope in hell of reaching Felicitie in any sort of timely manner, Jacquotte argued. Not without helping to rebuild Asha’s strength, first. At first, Bron had seen the merit to her argument, and gave in.

‘ _If only I’d been told ahead of time that my leadership was conditional, based on Bron’s patience,’_ she thought dryly.

Her trusted right-hand woman was staring her down with incredible frustration, the two of them sitting outside the house Jacquotte had been making the most use of. The porch was nearly a romantic little spot, wide with plenty of room for the chairs they’d carried outside. Not too far away, the men were assisting in Asha’s daily ritual of practicing her steps; Sly had been forbidden from laying so much as a finger on her, but Lyall was considerably more helpful, a better coach than Jacquotte and less hands-on than Sly. He only coaxed her into using support when she began to wobble, and never demanded she give up.

“If the lawmen don’t track us, Wish Hunters will. We ought to wash our hands of all this business, I say. Get our money, as agreed, take back our freedom and our gold, and we’ll be left to the way things were before. Roaming, a different adventure for every day – isn’t that what you want?” as Bron spoke, her tone lost some of her annoyance, melting into an urgent sort of wonderment. She had leaned forward in her seat, almost conspiratorial, wanting to keep her doubt between the pair of them.

“Of course that’s what I want,” she frowned. “I haven’t become a different person.”

“It’s seemed that way, as of late.”

Bron wore a guarded expression, as though expecting offence, but instead Jacquotte only laughed. “Believe me, my friend, no matter what’s thrown my way, I will  _never_ change. Whether it’s old age, or a beautiful woman…”

“Beautiful-…?” Bron sputtered faintly. “You can’t possibly mean…”

Jacquotte raised an eyebrow. “You surely aren’t questioning whether or not the  _Wishing Maiden_ is beautiful, so… What’s the confusion for?”

“Well, you aren’t acting like yourself. If it’s over her, surely you don’t think you’re in love.”

“What? Of course not,” Jacquotte laughed, but it rang empty.

“You’ve only known her for a few days!”

“I know that. I’m not acting any differently, Bron,” her dismissal went soundly ignored, and the other woman stood, drawing herself to her full, impressive height.

“You know as well as I do that isn’t true. At least, you would know if you weren’t in such denial,” Bron growled, bear-like. “I used to think you were uncatchable! When we first met – you remember it, don’t you? You were so swift and never stayed in one place; you used to laugh at the thought. So _what changed?_ ”

“I’m just trying to use some sense,” she countered immediately. Bron laughed loud, voice climbing to a yell.

“I _wish_ you had some sense! Look me in the eye and tell me you think this is the rational thing to-… to… Jacquotte…?”

Without warning, Jacquotte’s focus seemed to have slipped entirely. Her gaze was blank, vague, looking far past Bron in utter confusion. Her head was drifting, as though looking to one side, unresponsive to Bron’s voice.

“Jacquotte,” she said, more urgently, and knelt in front of her. “What’s wrong?”

“Jacquotte!” Lyall yelled; still, she only looked unfocused, and Bron turned to see what the trouble was. Asha had collapsed, gripping over her chest as though something had speared her right through; their gazes met at first, so Bron thought, but she quickly realized that the Maiden was, in actuality, watching Jacquotte with a look of panic.

“What’s happened?” Sly called, frowning.

“Something’s wrong with Jacquotte,” Bron lightly gripped the redhead’s leg, and was almost surprised when her wrist was immediately snatched. She was clutching it in absolute confusion – it was written all over her face – and her fingers traveled up the other’s arm, as though trying to piece together who was touching her.

“Bron?” her voice was too loud, had a muffled quality.

“Yes,” Bron raised her voice, but Jacquotte still seemed utterly deaf. Slowly, she withdrew, rounding on Asha.

She had begun to stand, more shaky than before, still watching in silent trepidation.

“ _What did you do?_ ” Bron snarled.

“I – it wasn’t my fault…!” she protested weakly. “You lead a horse to water, you can’t blame it when it drinks, because it’s _meant_ to drink-… You wished, and I…”

“Everyone, be calm,” Lyall nearly pleaded, but Bron would hear none of it; he was nearly pushed out of her way as she advanced on the Maiden, livid.

“Reverse it. What have you done, deafened her? Is she blind?”

“I don’t _know_ , and I cannot,” the chains on her wrists clinked as they struck each other, her hands lifting to shield her face. “I don’t say the words, myself, I _told_ her, I thought – you can’t throw around that word!”

“Hold on, would you both…!” Lyall hastily stepped between the two women. “Bron, you made a wi-…”

Asha yelped, and he stopped mid-word.

“…You used _that word_ , and then what? What did you say?” he asked, wide-eyed.

Bron paused, uncomfortably answering, “I you-know-what that she had some sense… How would that have made her…?”

“Deaf as a post, blind as a bat,” Sly announced, and flung one of his knives straight towards Jacquotte.

It whizzed by her head, and sank into the wooden wall behind her. She didn’t even blink.

“Perhaps that took some of her senses away?” Lyall suggested weakly. “You did say ‘some sense’…”

“Which ones did you take?” Bron turned on Asha again, who cowered.

“I don’t know, I never know the ends, I’m only the means…”

“Just un-you-know-what it!” Sly threw his hands up, and marched over to pry his knife from the house. “Problem solved!”

“We ought to be careful with our wording…”

“This is ridiculous,” Bron scowled darkly. “ _I wish_ Jacquotte had every sense she was born with – smell, touch, taste, sight, sound…”

Asha curled in on herself again, silvery locks falling into her face.

All at once, it was as though someone had lit a light in Jacquotte’s brain – alert again, her hand went instinctively towards her saber, the blade half-drawn before she remembered herself. Releasing it, she drove the heel of her palm against one eye, gaze quickly skipping over each one of them.

“It was my fault,” Bron didn’t wait for her to ask. “I misspoke.”

“…Right then,” she mumbled. “Try not to do that again. Asha?”

“Mm…?” the Maiden had yet to lift her head. It wasn’t until Jacquotte reached forward, one finger under her chin and lifting, that she dared show her face. She’d gone pale, again – so fair, she practically glowed a sickly-white.

Jacquotte only swept her hair further away from her face. “Are you alright?”

She nodded stiffly, but murmured, “No. I think I’d like to go to bed, now.”

The sun had only just begun to set, but Jacquotte didn’t debate it. She simply got to her feet, eyeing Bron as though saying, ‘This hasn’t been resolved.’ Opening the door for the Maiden, she took her by the arm to assist her inside, leading her past Sly as he continued to struggle with his knife.

With a sound of frustration, Bron gave the door a heated glare once it had closed, and stormed away.

“…Wonder what their arguing was about?” Lyall sounded faintly apprehensive, but Sly only grinned.

“Women. They’re temperamental creatures, Lyall. You’ll learn about them one day, if you ever choose to educate yourself,” the way he waggled his brows slapped a hidden definition onto his words. The implication was not lost on the farm boy.

Immediately, he bristled, shoulders setting back. “I don’t need to ‘educate myself’ the way you do,” he said hotly, “nor do I want to.”

“Spoken like a true virgin,” finally, he managed to wrench the blade free. “You know she’d only take an interest if you were a Lorelei, instead of a Lyall. Go sow some wild oats, why don’t you?”

“You have no shame at all,” he sighed. “Don’t you feel _wrong_ when you do your ‘sowing’ with anyone other than Grete?”

“I might, if she’d let me prospect her fields…”

“Your analogy is becoming disgusting.”

“You’re the one who started me on that train of thought. If you’d prefer, I can switch to trains,” Sly grinned a shameless sort of smirk, now clearly playing upon Lyall’s discomfort. “Shall I speak of steam, rails, and hearing Grete coming from a mile away?”

Lyall grimaced and turned away, “I’d thank you if you wouldn’t.”

“My point is, my friend,” Sly scoffed, “if you aren’t planning on swaying Jacquotte properly – which would be quite a trick – you may as well let her break your heart so you can move on.”


	7. Chapter 7

_ Chapter VI; Act II, scene iv _

 

 

“ _She has a face that inspires songs,_

_And her heart speaks poetry._

_She may not always tell right from wrong,_

_But she is always right to me._

 

_She’s like the eye of a hurricane,_

_Always surrounded by a storm._

_Caught in the eye of the hurricane,_

_Somehow, she keeps me safe and warm.”_

-          Lyall’s truth.

 

 

***

 

His troubled mind kept him awake late into the night.

Perhaps it was due to the things Sly had said, or – more likely – it was because what had once felt like a hopeless dream had slipped into his grasp, at last.

Who could love Jacquotte as devotedly as he did? Who would follow her to the very ends of the earth, if she asked? More than that – she would never  _need_ to ask that of him. Lyall would have done it, anyway, without a second thought. Where she stayed, he’d gladly stay, and where she went, he would follow. That was the way it had been since the way they’d first met, and so long as he was in her presence, he thought he had been content with simply being around to give his love.

If he wished for it…she would be his.

The idea was tearing at him so horribly that he felt queasy.

In the breakable hope that he would be able to walk himself to exhaustion, Lyall had wandered the town until he’d stepped over the implicit border, heading towards the massive tree and well. He couldn’t say what compelled him, nor could he say for certain whether or not his steps were aimless, but seeing the Wishing Maiden leaning over the well and staring longingly into the blackness could not be any sort of coincidence.

Gasping lightly, she pulled away and stumbled back against the massive trunk, startled. “Oh-…”

“I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you,” Lyall tried to soothe her, voice hushed. “What are you doing out here, so late? Alone?”

“I-…” she relaxed, but only scarcely. “I was…taking a walk. I couldn’t sleep.”

“We’re in the same boat,” he half-smiled.

He could. He could wish for it, right then and there-…

“If Jacquotte wakes and sees that you’ve gone missing, there’ll be quite a fuss,” weakly, he chuckled. “She’s not pretty when she’s angry-… Well, I mean only that… Her temper, it can be a vicious thing, not that she isn’t-… She’s always beautiful…”

“You love her very much,” Asha spoke over his babbling. “Don’t you?”

His heart lodged itself in his throat. He hadn’t realized he’d been so overt in his affections, for the Maiden to have noticed.

“I have a sense about these things,” unknowingly, she was comforting him. “A person’s greatest desire… I owe it to them. You desire her. More than life, more than anything. It’s true, isn’t it?”

For a terrifying second, Lyall feared that she had shocked the voice right out of him, and that he would never speak again. He didn’t even recognize his own voice, and it seemed to simply hover in front of him; his lips moved independently, “It’s true.”

Asha stepped towards him; her steps seemed a little stronger than they were earlier, and he briefly wondered if she had been wandering about every night, like this.

“…You could,” she murmured. “I wouldn’t mind. Better she love you than…” she trailed off, then repeated, “Better she love you.”

“I know you get upset, though, when… You know,” Lyall shifted uncomfortably, then turned away, shaking his head. “Besides which, it wouldn’t be right, I didn’t _earn_ her love…”

“Nor did I,” the Maiden sounded nearly pleading, catching his arm. “I’m not designed for her affections, or any person’s – it shouldn’t be, and if she were to lose interest… You ought not to remove bits and pieces from the design, it ruins _everything_ , and together… With your wish, we can shove it back in the box. Put things right, before it’s too late. Isn’t that best?”

To Lyall’s ears, she was speaking nonsense. All he understood was –

“Jacquotte loves you?”

Her hands withdrew slightly, as though burned, and she spoke with caution, “To find me, to have me…the greatest wish that she had. I could only have been found by someone who desired me so greatly, so…yes. I believe she does love me.”

The feeling was remarkably akin to being knifed – Lyall knew, for the company he kept could be the violent sort, and while he was capable of holding his own in the brawls they seemed to attract, things happened. Injuries were sustained. He’d been run through with a blade, before, and had the scar to prove it.

The knowledge left no scar, but hurt just as terribly.

“And…why should she not?” he tried to hide his pain. “You’re a lovely young woman…”

“Not young,” Asha corrected tiredly, “and just barely a woman.”

“Even so, I-… I wish you both well.”

“A _well_ is where I should be!” Never had he heard her speak so loudly; it was nigh on a shout, decidedly frantic. “This is only a different prison, one pleasant to be in, but _wrong_ …!”

Unexpectedly, Asha had buried herself against Lyall’s chest, catching him before he could turn his back. Dimly, he heard her sob, but he made no move to wind his arms around her, as though afraid to do so. Asha was Jacquotte’s love – it felt wrong, to even be in her presence. It was like being doused in water so hot, it froze him to the bone.

“She ought to love you,” she cried gently, tears falling into his clothing. “So, make her love you… It may fix all that’s going wrong…”

He was silent, for too-long a stretch of time. Jacquotte would never love him on her own; she loved Asha, who didn’t seem to even want her affections. Was it fair, that the woman he lived for would not have those feelings returned?

“Will you give me time to think about it?” he asked quietly. “To make a… you-know-what, with so much weight… Perhaps I ought to sleep on it. I don’t know for certain whether or not I could bear knowing that loving me wasn’t truly what she wanted.”

Slowly, Asha drew away, and he felt her nod rather than saw her do so.

“See? Already, proof that you are better for her than I,” her chains clinked and her hand brushed against his shirt, the quiet act of catching her tears before any more could fall feeling too-loud.

When he offered to escort her back to the cabin she was sharing with Jacquotte, she declined. She wanted to be out here, by the well, for just a little longer.

The hours passed, leaving her alone with her thoughts until the gentle breaking of daylight. Trapped in her reverie, Asha started badly at the sound of a cough from behind her.

“L-…”

Jacquotte couldn’t have missed the look of utter surprise on her face when she turned, as though she had been expecting someone else. Taking a few broad steps towards her, she decided to ignore the near-slip, instead asking, “Were you out here all night?”

Asha slowly looked back towards the blackness at the bottom of the well. “I was. I didn’t realize how much time had passed… I apologize, if I worried you.”

“There’s no need for that,” she dismissed, joining her. Jacquotte leaned forward against the side of the well, but did not peer down as the Maiden was; Asha had all of her attention, and she could see on her face that she wished that wasn’t so.

“I must admit, I was surprised you were able to walk this far on your own…”

“It took me a while to manage it,” Asha admitted. “I needed to rest several times on the trip. Once I was standing, though, I couldn’t let myself sit down again… I feared I would never get back up.”

“So did you stay here all night because you lost track of time, or because you were afraid of walking back without help?”

Jacquotte wasn’t certain what she was aiming to accomplish, herself; trapping her in any sort of lie would not be satisfying, and she hadn’t a clue whether or not it even mattered. It was perhaps rendered moot, however, as Asha responded quickly enough with, “Perhaps a bit of both reasons. Time doesn’t quite pass normally for me, just yet. I’m adjusting to these days versus nights, times to rise and times to rest… Down there, it was all the same. Torturous, but… I was freer, in a way.”

“Was that how you hoped it would be?” Jacquotte couldn’t resist asking, but hastily amended, “You don’t need to answer. You’ve told me more than I would have expected you to tell, of your life before. I have no right to ask, really.”

“It’s alright,” she shook her head. “I suppose I don’t mind.”

“…Then, was it?”

Asha spread her hands in front of her in a sort of helpless gesture. “Yes, I suppose. I don’t know  _what_ I was hoping for, only that… I needed to be away from it all. Certain things in this world ought to not be shared, and I am one of those things. Far more precious to mankind as a memory, wouldn’t you say?”

“Your words are confusing, again,” lightly, she teased, and Asha smiled. As much as Jacquotte treasured the rare, sweet tilt of her lips, there was always something behind it… Or, a _lack_ of the proper thing, making her appear sad above all else.

“I apologize,” she murmured. “My thoughts are always so unclear that it’s a wonder I can make any sense at all.”

“Perhaps you only make sense to _me_ ,” Jacquotte suggested, still with the air of light banter. Asha did not appear to hear it the same, however, gaze dropping even lower.

“Perhaps so.”

“…No need for such a serious face. It’s too early for deep thoughts like the ones in your head,” Jacquotte lightly chastised, then followed her gaze towards the depths. “Are you thinking of him?”

“Him? Who, Willem?” briefly, Asha appeared thrown off, and Jacquotte was glad for it. It created tiny cracks in that solemn mask she’d created, letting some of the radiance shine through.

“Yes. I can only take a wild guess, but being out here, staring down at your ‘old home’…” she trailed off, a note of distaste ringing clear.

“I suppose I was, in a sense,” Asha murmured. “My Willem… He was much like your Lyall is, to you, is he not?”

“ _Lyall?_ ” Now, there was laughter, but it was not grown from amusement. Jacquotte sounded almost amazed, taken off-guard by the observation.

“Yes,” the Maiden nodded. “You are aware of how he loves you, are you not?”

Slowly, Jacquotte turned and leaned forward against the well’s edge, using her eyes to dig holes into the thick tree’s rough bark, seeing through it. “I’d have to be blind to have missed it,” she confessed. “I’ve known for quite some time, he makes no secret of his devotion.”

“May I ask how you met?” Asha timidly ventured. Jacquotte waved a dismissive hand.

“It isn’t one of my better stories. The short of it was that my wanderlust had gotten the better of me again – there was little excitement to be found in long stretches of farmland – and I got caught in a terrible storm. I took cover in a barn for the night, and Lyall found me sleeping in there at the crack of dawn, wearing not a stitch. I should have known he would grow to love me, then,” she laughed ruefully. “Only a man who loved you would look anywhere but at your naked body. Even when he begun following us, wanting to be a part of our unlawful band, he couldn’t look directly at me for weeks.”

“He seems sweet,” Asha murmured, brushing curls away from her face as though self-conscious.

“He is,” Jacquotte agreed, “but I suppose you’re right. He is ‘my Willem’… I cannot love him.”

“But why not?” If there was a note of pleading to her tone, the redheaded rogue pretended not to catch it.

“Men have never held any appeal to me. I prefer a woman’s touch – Lyall knows this,” lightly, she shifted and moved a few more stray silver locks away from Asha’s face. “Besides which, as he carries a torch for me, I carry one for another. You know that well.”

“I do,” ocean-grey eyes were very fixedly not straying in Jacquotte’s direction, but neither of them called attention to it.

“…Come, I’ll walk you back,” Jacquotte murmured. “You must be ready to collapse, after being out here all night…”

“I am a bit tired, yes,” accepting the help, Asha let the other woman guide her arms, one draping around stronger shoulders, Jacquotte’s hand firmly taking her by the waist. Unconsciously, she had reddened, softly arguing, “Tired, but not a _child_ …”

“Yes, I know,” Jacquotte put one foot forward, half-carrying her along. “We’ve established this is why I’m incapable of helping you rebuild your strength. For now, just let me take care of you.”

“I-…” seeming to realize there was little point in debating, Asha simply nodded, and focused on matching Jacquotte’s steps. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she answered.

 

_ Scene v _

 

Dinner was becoming more of a comfortable affair, as they spent it in each other’s company more often. Sometimes they would be unable to begin until late, for they were running lower on rations with every day that Jacquotte refused to leave; instead there were nightly hunts and traps set for the birds and rabbits, for they seemed to be all that was left of the wildlife.

“All this time that I’ve been above the ground, and it only occurs to me just now,” Asha began as Jacquotte set down a meal before her, having brought inside what she’d claimed of the spit-roasted hare from outside.

“What has?” she sank into her own chair with eyebrows raised, inviting her to go on.

“The world must have changed very much, since I’ve been gone. True?”

“Perhaps not quite so much as you think,” Jacquotte shook her head, but smiled. “You wonder what those changes are?”

“It would probably be difficult to say,” Asha took the fork she’d been given in hand, beginning to pick at her meal. “You were not around to watch the changes take place…”

“I know of some,” she offered. “Not much has changed, overseas, save for the way they trade. The emphasis, now, are the goods Desidrius has to offer. Specifically, the Kingdom of Felicitie, though even beyond the borders, quality of life is high. Most say that’s _your_ doing?”

“Do they really,” Asha said quietly, but didn’t seem surprised.

“Truth, then,” Jacquotte grinned. “I’d surmised that. The royal family has become little more than figureheads… The kingdom runs itself. There hasn’t been a problem for them to deal with since the birth of the kingdom. I do apologize for speaking ill of the man who, I think, _intended_ on being your husband, but if you were to ever meet the prat, I think you’d forgive me.”

“Hold on a moment,” Asha stared. “Husband? It was for _him_ that you came to find me? The king of Felicitie?”

“Prince,” she corrected, “and there’s a mixed answer. I wanted to seek you out for the sheer joy of an impossible search…but he threw our freedom into the mix and held Grete’s gold hoards hostage, demanding we find you and bring you to him, presumably to be wed or some other such nonsense.”

“…And you’ve no intention of ever carrying out your end of that bargain,” some of the tension that had woven into Asha’s posture eased.

“Of course not,” Jacquotte laughed. “I would keep you forever, if you’ll have me.”

She didn’t expect how abrupt and stifled the silence to follow would be, Asha looking firmly away from her. There was a pink tinge to her face that spoke of embarrassment, a sparkle to her eye that could be read as joy, but the way she was biting her lip in anxiety…

“I’m sorry,” Jacquotte broke the quiet cautiously. “I did not mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“No, no,” Asha hurried to mend the awkwardness. “I was only – I’m sorry, I was lost in thought. Please, don’t feel as though you need to mince words with me, it isn’t as though I can’t tell what’s in your heart. I already _know_.”

“…Then maybe it’s time we finally talked about what’s in yours,” Jacquotte glanced up, expression almost deadly serious.

Beyond what she had been told, and only at her needling, Asha did not speak of herself. Not once had she said anything about her own desires, and whenever the subject of Jacquotte was broached, she would become distant and – if it were possible – even quieter. It looked as though she were preparing to follow the pattern, but Jacquotte stood, ignoring their dinner for the time being as she instead knelt by Asha’s chair.

“Listen to me,” she said firmly. “We haven’t known each other for very long, and I am aware that circumstances are _different_ , for you. The Maiden of legend – to ask for you to even look my way was a thought that would never have occurred to me…before, and after I believed you to be real. Speaking of that, I still find myself looking back with incredulity, wondering how I _possibly_ could not have known you were meant to be part of my life. It was as though you were always there; without you, even the greatest adventure would feel hollow.”

“Jacquotte-…”

“I am content simply having you be part of my life, whether you love me or not,” she spoke in spite of Asha’s attempted interruption. “I treasure you as a comrade, as well.”

At this, Asha stared. “You think of the two of us as friends?”

“Should I not?”

“I don’t know,” the Maiden sighed. It seemed difficult for her to muster her next words, breath catching when she tried to speak them the first time.

“I should not feel any more for you than friendship,” she drew further away from Jacquotte, eyes averting. “I am sorry.”

Jacquotte was quiet for a moment, but Asha was surprised to hear the smile in her voice. “Should not? What does that mean…? You ‘should not’ feel any more than that?”

“I… Excuse me?”

“You said ‘should not’,” Jacquotte stood again, brushing dust away from her knees and sinking back into her chair with a satisfied look upon her face. “Not ‘could not’ or ‘will not’… I suppose there’s hope for me yet, isn’t there?”

Asha’s blush glowed twice as bright, and she focused upon her supper, refusing to speak another word.

 

They did not sleep near each other, and since she had begun taking her late-night walks, she was all the more glad for it. Asha’s strength rebuilt to the point where it didn’t take her nearly quite as long to get up on her own, glad for the elevation of the bed and the still-sturdy bedposts that she clutched at for support.

Jacquotte appeared to still be deep in her dreams; carefully, as light on her feet as she could manage, she crept over the creaky floorboards with as little weight upon each loose plank as possible. She thanked the heavens that she was so slight, for even when the dusty surface groaned, it wasn’t loud enough to rouse the slumbering redhead.

The door was trickier. The hinges squeaked in protest, as though trying to cry out to Jacquotte that Asha was doing something she ought not to have been. She only opened the door a crack, enough for her to slip out of, before cautiously pulling it closed again.

Walking just that far burned the muscles of her calves and made her knees knock from weakness. She leaned against the side of the house, eyes closing briefly, and inhaled.

Cool air reminded her of water. It flowed into her, refreshing, an incredible difference to that of the stagnant sewer the bottom of the well had been. Breezes were taken horribly for granted, above the ground…

Jacquotte didn’t take them for granted, it seemed. She’d told her, already, that before she had wanted the Wishing Maiden, she’d just wanted the wind in her hair. It made her feel free, she said.

Asha winced slightly. That was a much better thing to desire, than…

“Asha.”

Lyall had been waiting at the well, first – it surprised her, and she wondered for how long he’d been there. She nodded faintly in greeting, and accepted his help only too gladly as he guided her closer, letting her lean upon him and the shallow stone wall.

“Have you made your decision?” she inquired, and pretended the way her voice quavered was due to the shiver shaking her body rather than anything else.

“I think I have,” Lyall swallowed so hard it was audible. “First, though, I just want your word on one thing.”

Something in her chest felt colder, but she nodded and steeled herself to lie. “What is it?”

“Can you promise me that… That she’ll never know?” he exhaled. “As far as she’ll know – she’ll _ever_ know – her love for me would be real.”

“That’s all in the way you phrase it,” she replied, and the knot in her chest unclenched a little. “Her love _will_ be real, Lyall. She will love you, as you ask for it, and…you will make her happy.”

Happier than she could ever make Jacquotte.

“…Then, I wish…”

Asha took in a breath.

“I wish Jacquotte had eyes only for me.”

 

Grete’s scream woke Lyall, the next morning, even though he’d chosen to rest practically at the other end of the street. She probably stirred the birds from their nests – so loud, so shrill, and entirely justified, so far as anyone could tell.

Jacquotte expressed confusion when her companions screeched, cried out, clamored to have her see her reflection – though, for the life of them, none of them knew how Jacquotte was able to see with nothing but empty sockets where her eyes once were.

Lyall could see her eyes. No one else could, it seemed, including Jacquotte herself.

He took the Maiden aside, hurriedly wished that the effects of his last request were void, and prayed no one would ever be the wiser.

When he tried it again – “I wish Jacquotte would look at me, the way she looked at you,” – the woman found that, whenever she tried to look Asha’s way, her head was forcibly tilted towards Lyall instead. He was hasty to amend that one, as well.

After one particular incident he wished desperately to wipe from his mind, (“I wish I were attractive to Jacquotte,” had the, subjectively speaking, poor side-effect of turning him into a woman) Lyall began to question the wisdom behind even trying.

Unfortunately for him, it was then that the others (namely, Sly and Grete) were beginning to catch on to the reasons behind the oddities… And the idea that the Wishing Maiden was also  _theirs_ to use had been planted in their heads like a seed.

The wishing mania had hit them at last, and the only thing to separate them from the rest of the world was the fact that their desires could be granted.

 

***

 

 

“ _What’s the worth of anything, if it isn’t earned?_

_Success is even sweeter than profit, I have learned._

_With all that I’ve got coming from the effort I exert –_

_Jacquotte doesn’t have to know,_

_What can one wish hurt?”_

_-_ Grete and Sly’s downfall.


	8. Chapter VII

_ Chapter VII; Act II, scene vi _

 

 

Bron had wheedled and pushed to the point where Jacquotte could no longer deny that she was avoiding returning to Felicitie. Asha was gaining back strength, and though the damage that inactivity had done was unlikely to ever be repaired for good, she could at least walk for some time without weakening. Bron had all but hoisted her up onto horseback, instructed her to hold on tightly to Lyall, and left Jacquotte no room to argue about it. She seemed it best to think she separate the two of them – Bron said it was due to Sly and Grete’s insistence that they ride together for the first stretch of the journey, at least, and putting herself and Lyall both on one horse would crumple even the strongest of stallions.

Jacquotte had good reason to suspect that keeping them apart for ‘Jacquotte’s own good’ had something to do with it, nonetheless, even if it was just an additional perk.

She supposed she had to admit, although irately, that already the scenery had improved. A mountain path was considerably more picturesque than a husk of a town, and the other members of the Quintet seemed in better spirits the moment they’d departed.

“I must admit,” Sly announced, only a pace or two behind Lyall and Asha; the trail was too narrow to allow side-by-side travel, “I’m nearly looking forward to sleeping under the stars again. Roughing it outside is more pleasant than roughing it inside, I say.”

“I’ll second that,” Grete called, speaking loud to be heard by Jacquotte, at the head of the line. “You couldn’t pay me to stay another night in that place…”

“There is literally nothing in the world you couldn’t be paid to do,” Jacquotte called lazily back, prompting a snigger from Sly. Promptly, Grete buried her fist in his gut, from behind.

“That hurt,” he coughed slightly.

“It meant to. I was trying to hit you a little bit lower,” she retorted, then lowered her voice to a secretive whisper. “So long as you aren’t soprano, tell me… What are you thinking of?”

“At the moment, your hands near my-…”

Grete promptly struck him again. “About your wish, you imbecile.”

“I think I’d like to be famously clever,” he mused. “I’ve already got quick hands and wit… Nothing goes better with both of those things than the wisdom of twenty scholars?”

“Clever,” Grete nodded.

“It doesn’t take even one scholar to guess what _you_ plan on wishing for,” Sly laughed; he was getting a touch too loud, and pulled the reins back as prompted. They didn’t want Asha to hear them until they were entirely prepared.

“Maybe not, but there’s nothing wrong with my wish,” she hissed, slightly affronted. “The Wishing Maiden is worth her weight in gold – and far more than that. I’m simply being paid what I’m due.”

“So you earned it, did you?”

“I certainly did. Get closer – I want her to hear me, now.”

Obligingly, Sly dug his heels into the horse’s side until they were near enough, and tried to coax her attention towards them.

 

***

 

 

“ _Maiden, Maiden, beautiful and meek,_

_Listen, Maiden, can you hear me speak?”_

 

 

***

 

Slowly, subtly, her head turned.

Heading Sly off before he could speak, she eagerly whispered, “I wish I had five gold coins in the palm of my hand, right now.”

Asha flinched, curling into herself, but Grete took no notice. Delightedly, she opened her hand – five new, shining coins sat there, the crest of Felicitie emblazoned on them, marking them as the highest tender in the entire continent.

“ _Five?_ ” Sly was incredulous. “You only wished for five?”

“I’m only getting started,” she giggled, lighter and happier than he had ever known her to be. “I wish for ten more, exactly like this.”

It looked like the coins were being formed in mid-air by dust – little bits formed from nothing, assembling like microscopic puzzle pieces until a solid coin was formed, and fell into her open, cupped hands. Gleeful, she began stuffing them into one of the emptied leather sacks she’d sewn.

“I wish for _twenty_ more.”

Sly chuckled, feeling the cool precious metal tapping his back. Before them, Asha was looking nearly faint, her grasp around Lyall’s waist starting to weaken.

“I wish for so much gold I could drown in it!” Grete laughed too loud, and began happily scooping the suddenly-endless stream of coins spilling into her lap, overflowing and piling higher than her legs could contain. As it dropped to the ground by the horse’s hooves, Grete abruptly dived for it, abandoning the saddle and beginning to greedily stack the coin-flow into piles that would not stay tidy.

 

***

 

“ _Maiden, Maiden, bury me in wealth,_

_Bless you, Maiden, here is to your health.”_

 

***

 

“Grete-…!” Sly pulled on the reins, still laughing, himself. If he stopped to wait for her, the Maiden would be out of earshot…

“I wish I had all the knowledge in the world,” he called to her, uncaring of whether or not they were caught, now; it would be evident enough, what they’d been doing, given the waterfall of coins being pelted to the ground around Grete.

 

***

 

“ _Maiden, Maiden, I’d like to be wise._

_Envied, Maiden, my mind is a prize.”_

 

***

 

Yanking back on the reins, he jerked the horse around to double back towards the petite brunette. He didn’t see Asha slip back on the horse ahead and fall to the ground.

“Ah – Jacquotte!” Lyall shouted, forcing their mare to a stop.

Sharply, she stopped the gelding and looked back; she’d gotten farther ahead, with Bron, and hadn’t the patience for the horse. Dropping the reins, she hauled herself off the horse’s side and hit the ground running, boots beating down the dirt path as she ran back towards the others.

Asha looked gravely ill, half-conscious and being kept from slipping into sleep by pain, and Grete and Sly-…

Her oldest friend was doubled over, coins raining down on her head, striking her again and again. She appeared to only half-notice; her hands were locked around her throat, face purpling as she tried to retch, to cough – Jacquotte couldn’t tell, exactly, but something was very wrong.

Rather than help her, Sly had slid to the ground, eyes wide and fixed on the ground with such intensity, it was as though his gaze was burrowing into the ground. Though his lips moved, no sound came out, all the strength and energy sapped from him – all that he seemed capable of was to frenetically clutch at his face, his hair, his chest. Those quick hands never lingered, moving constantly, but often slapping over his mouth as though he were about to be sick.

“What in the hell is going on?!” she bolted towards Grete, hands finding her arm and pulling her hard, trying to take her away from the barrage. To her horror, it only followed.

Something had spilled from the corner of the girl’s mouth, shining wetly; saliva, she thought, but it glinted the molten yellow of gold. Immediately, Jacquotte hauled Grete’s tinier frame against her own, hands hooking above her navel and clenching into fists, throwing her weight into her stomach repeatedly.

Grete only thrashed more, trying more desperately to cough, until she abruptly went limp.

The rainfall of gold clattered to the dirt road, no more of it forming from thin air.

“Grete?” Jacquotte knelt, keeping her in her arms with a set expression. “Grete… Come now…”

“All in the words you use,” Sly mumbled, voice an octave or two higher. He hunched into himself, rocking forward. “Shouldn’t use the words, should use your brain, and keep it in the box. The universe, comprised of tiny particles, nothing but dust, swirling around, cosmic coincidence – circumstances align, planets form, life forms, but it’s all meaningless, a division of a second in all of space-time, just a spatter of ink on a canvas too big for comprehension – Five gold. Ten gold. Twenty gold. Forty gold. Eighty, one hundred and sixty …to the exponent of two, she choked, filled her lungs. That’s the obvious. It’s all obvious. Laid out like a whore for us to look at, to see, not to _understand_ , if we understood we would all-… Make it stop…”

“Snap him out of it!” Jacquotte snarled towards Bron as she approached, slack-jawed and stunned. She let go of the horse’s reins, lurching forward to pick Sly up on the ground, giving him a firm shake.

He didn’t seem jolted from his traumatized reverie, only muttering brokenly, “An infinite number of choices produces an infinite number of futures, and all that’s certain is  _every single human being_ will choose the option they think will get them a happy ending… Selfish, so selfish…”

“He’s delirious,” Bron stared numbly at him, letting him fall back to the ground and cuffing him upside the head, still trying to snap him out of it.

“No joy, in the end, because we _work_ for the joy, and all we ever do is work, but it won’t amount to anything because we’re never satisfied – is that better? Is that better than what is to come, without the promise at the end? Donkeys don’t chase the end of the stick, they chase the carrot…”

“Speak sense!” Bron growled in frustration. “Jacquotte, what in the seven _hells_ happened?!”

“It’s obvious,” Sly answered first.

“They _wished_ ,” Jacquotte snarled. Asha roused, flinching terribly.

“Please…don’t…”

The redhead stood, laying Grete carefully among her bed of coins, approaching Asha. “…How could you do this?” she asked quietly. “Answer me, first, before I decide what to do.”

There were tears in her eyes, and weakly, she was pushing herself away from Lyall.

“I do not choose how they are granted,” she said softly, voice breaking on every other word. “I’m only the means. A tool gets no say.”

Jacquotte’s hand had strayed towards her saber; it stopped, now, and she stared at her hard. There wasn’t a trace of grief on her face; there wouldn’t be, yet, the remainder of the Quintet knew very well.

“…Why do you look in pain, with every one you grant?”

One hand drifted back up to her chest, hovering over her heart before curling in the fabric of her shirt.

“They asked…naturally…that _those things_ would never end,” so soft, so frail, Asha’s voice was as difficult to pick up as glass spun as fine as a thread. “Unlimited… That was what condemned me to this. Immortality – I can never die, to fulfill that ‘desire’.”

“Unlimited wishes mean you can never die?”

“Each one is a knife in my heart. He who speaks is a fox,” she wiped her eyes gingerly. “Each tiny piece of my life is a hen.”

Very faintly, so slight a shade that it could have been a trick of the imagination, Jacquotte’s expression softened. “Honestly…? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It’s never stopped anyone from wishing, before.”

Lyall’s grave expression grew even more somber.

‘… _She_ _ **asked**_ _that I wish upon her… She_ _ **wanted**_ _me to take Jacquotte’s love…’_

It didn’t alleviate the sudden, horrid guilt pricking his skin like shallow jabs of a pitchfork. How many attempts had he made, mucking up the wording and then wishing for the results of the last to be taken back?

“…Grete’s wi-… It killed her,” Jacquotte turned away, looking back towards the purpled corpse of her friend.

No one dared make her turn back towards them, until they picked up on the sound of hooves, coming from the direction they had been traveling in.

“Infinite number of choices,” Sly mumbled again. “Infinite possible futures, but the outcome is the same… I know the outcome…”

“Jacquotte,” Lyall hesitated. “People-… Anyone traveling this far is bound to be-…”

“Hunters,” abandoning Sly for the moment, Bron went to grab the reins of their steeds, scowl even more deeply set. “What should we do?”

Already, Lyall was casting his gaze around in search of something to improvise as weaponry. Jacquotte’s fingers played over her sword’s handle, deliberating – normally, the lust for a fight was strong within her. After suffering a loss, she would have expected it to double; there was no other way that she knew of, to show grief, other than the blood-pumping high that came from dancing around danger.

That was how she’d coped with  _everything_ , in the past.

‘ _But, losing Grete, losing Sly… I couldn’t lose Asha too.’_

Sly may have been present, but he was still clearly  _gone_ . Half-coherent and beginning to drool, the effects of Sly’s wish had broken him down thoroughly, but for the life of her, she couldn’t tell what had  _happened_ to make him so. What had he wished for – hysteria?

“…We stand ground, but avoid a battle,” she determined, and to her surprise, her voice didn’t tremble. Strange, for she was certain there was a quiver in her chest that was trying to crawl up her throat, the sensation stinging her eyes. “Hide Asha – cover Grete. If they see the gold, they’ll know we possess the Maiden.”

Bron was looking incredulous. “We haven’t the time to-…”

“We have more time than strength, right now,” Jacquotte cut her off brusquely, striding over to Grete’s coin-encased body. “I need a tarp, a blanket, anything. Perhaps we can pass ourselves as injured travelers… Hunters giving up on the quest…”

“Jacquotte, they’re nearly here!” Lyall had hastened to follow her judgments, grabbing one of the larger tarps they often used to create cover from rain, on the nights they slept outdoors. “How should we hide Asha…?”

“There’s no use in that!” Bron retorted. “We ought to fight them back, we’ve managed with all the others who came before them!”

Just at the end of the upwards slope, Jacquotte was glimpsing the bobbing green and purple feathers of the Felicitie lawmen’s helmets. Cursing beneath her breath, she spread the tarp over the heap with Lyall’s assistance, glancing back in time to see Bron still standing with her fists clenched and staring down Asha as though she were the enemy. The Maiden simply remained on the ground, regaining her breath, looking to be at an utter loss for what to do.

‘ _She still has trouble standing on her own…’_

She was alright once she got started, but getting to her feet without assistance took her a while…

“Bron!” Jacquotte grit her teeth. “ _Hide her_.”

“…This is ridiculous,” she snapped, at last, going and hauling her easily to her feet. “Where am I meant to hide her?!”

“If you’d done it the moment I told you to do so, you may have been able to help her duck behind some of the rocks, but-…”

“Ho, there!”

Asha was quickly shielded by Bron, her mass concealing her as best she could. Jacquotte tried to keep her expression composed, despite feeling the pressure of several different weights – prevalent was anger and injustice, but the pain of losing Grete trumped it all.

Her oldest friend, as simple and one-track minded as she’d always been… She would be a missing part of the remainder of Jacquotte’s life. As infuriating as she could be, she had been the perfect counterweight; they had never wanted for anything, thanks to Grete, save for the next adventure.

Her eyes were stinging, again. She couldn’t say for certain whether or not it was a relief when the lawmen approached – only six of them, which surprised her, as she had thought they would have sent more if the Quintet had been what they were looking for – but either way, their presence subjugated her tears.

“Would you look at this, fellows?” the lawman at the helm spoke with a cocky sort of bluster. “A group of wanderers! Two lovely young women…” he trailed off, then sneered in Bron’s direction. “ _One_ lovely woman…”

The others laughed, and Bron’s fists clenched tighter.

“…And their strapping young lovers!” he concluded, eyeing the juggler at Bron’s feet, as he had begun tracing symbols into the dust using his finger, creating a complex equation that very well could have been nothing more than a string of random numbers.

Lyall eyed Jacquotte quickly, the two of them seated upon the tarp as though they’d been preparing to settle in for a rest. The redhead looked impassive, but there were tell-tale signs of her tension – the slight dimple in her jaw from how tightly it was clenched shut, the sharp angles her limbs were jutted out at.

“We tried to set up our rest spot so we wouldn’t impede travel,” Jacquotte swept one arm, indicating for them to move on. “Never mind us; you can be on your way.”

“Awfully considerate, seeing as I don’t think this is an oft-traveled road,” the lawman’s eyebrow shook, as though he were attempting to lift just the one but lacked practice at it. “In fact, I do wonder what you four are doing, all the way out here. Far from home, are you not?”

“Looking for a home, as it so happens,” Jacquotte replied evenly. “Newlyweds. Just eloped.”

Neither Bron nor Lyall gave any indication that she wasn’t speaking the truth. It seemed they either hadn’t recognized them as the Red Quintet, or if they had, they didn’t care. Most importantly, they hadn’t seen Asha past Bron, just yet, which plainly shocked the Maiden; she was visible to Jacquotte, from her angle, but she was careful not to look towards her. She only glimpsed from her peripheral vision, and hoped that the lawmen couldn’t do the same.

“Is that so?” the man cracked a grin. “Best wishes.”

Asha flinched. Jacquotte’s gaze remained steady, but Lyall’s strayed.

“Infinite number,” Sly’s unclear mutterings became articulate, in snippets. “To the exponent… So…how does inevitability come to be? Through choice.”

“Something looks to be disturbing your new husband,” the lawman said with a nod in his direction, tone a parody of concern. “What is your name, woman?”

It was difficult to tell what was grating on her the most, but she still managed to keep her tone level as she replied, “Bron.”

“Well, Bron,” he spoke in the same manner as one would when talking to a child, before raising his voice to a near-shout, “I do _wish_ you would tell me the truth about what you’re doing here.”

Asha reacted to the wrench of pain, tumbling to her knees the same instant Bron’s lips began to move without her consent.

“We retrieved the Wishing Maiden and are attempting to hide her from you.”

“So I see,” the lawman smirked, dismounting from his horse and signaling for the others to follow his lead. Asha’s shoulders hunched more, curled inward and letting a small, dry sob through her lips.

“Stay back!” Jacquotte was up in a blink, saber ringing as she drew it and thrust it under the man’s throat. “I’ll cut his throat if any one of you takes a step closer-…”

Blood ran down the blade, staining the dirt; the man’s eyes were wide, a wet snapping noise the only thing he could manage before his eyes rolled back. One of the others had shoved him ruthlessly forward, pulling out their own weapons.

“We’ll have the Maiden, now,” the one to push him sneered. “I _wish_ -…”

Jacquotte’s boot planted against the metal plate and kicked; it forced the dead man back, collapsing on the other and strangling his words. “Asha! Cover your ears, don’t listen to a thing!”

Promptly, she held each hand over an ear and began to sing to herself, breath catching in fear as she watched without sound.

Without Sly’s aid, it was the three remaining to duel against five, and though they had faced worse odds in the past, they had never before battled armed men who had nothing to lose. Lyall could think of nothing more effective to do battle with than hefty stones on the grounds, lobbing them at close-quarters, struggling to avoid Jacquotte’s weaving about.

Her sword clashed against the finest a blacksmith of Felicitie had to offer; steel sang painfully, and if the lawmen were still shouting their wishes, Jacquotte couldn’t make them out over the calamity. Left hand slipping into her belt, she drew one of her daggers and rammed it upwards through the vulnerable softness below his chin, piercing his tongue through and pinning it to the roof of his mouth. Screaming, he still would not desist, trying to wrench it out apparently falling to the wayside in priorities. He was far too fixated on trying to run her through with his sword, and one of the others who’d observed the blood spilling leapt to his aid.

Bron grabbed him from behind, arm hooking his neck and throwing him against one of his comrades – luck didn’t favor her, missing tossing him on the point of a sword. Lyall didn’t let that remain so, coming up from behind him and wrestling the blade out of his grasp, slashing one man’s back so deeply something severed. Lyall was nearly bucked off, his victim wrestling him away and throwing him back; he skidded through the dirt, hands clutching at another larger stone, lightly bloodied and scratched as he’d tried to catch himself. Staggering back up, the farm boy charged him down again, knocking his helmet off with some struggling and brutally pounding the stone against his unguarded face and forehead.

Spearing another of the men through the gut, Jacquotte tossed his sword Bron’s way as it slipped through his fingers, head turning so fast towards Lyall the muscle in her neck stung and burned; there were only three left – two, when she let her sword drag through the chest of the man she’d wounded, his screeches silencing and bloodied badge sent rolling through the dirt – and while Bron had been doing decently at holding one of them off empty-handed, that left one.

He was coming up from behind Lyall, hungry eyes locked on him with his sword sweeping downwards in a deadly arc. She didn’t have the time to think – Lyall hadn’t noticed, letting the murdered lawman in his arms spill to the ground and blinking out the red that had splashed back into his eyes.

Jacquotte leapt at him, plated shoulder cracking against his collarbone as he was shoved. She heard him stumble, and thought the sound of a body hitting the ground was his.

Then the pain sank in.

The sword had sliced through her side, severing skin, tissue, and muscle. It was planted so firmly that the blade remained stuck in her, blood oozing out and creating a tiny pool beneath her.

Dimly, she registered Bron’s outcry, the roar getting closer as she slammed her sword through her opponent’s chest and ran over, heavy feet pounding loud – or was that the sound of her own heartbeat, Jacquotte wondered.

There was a crack. She had twisted the neck of the last one, using his distraction to her advantage, brutal strength serving her well; she pushed him away, as he fell, and dropped down beside her leader.

“Jacquotte…!”

Lyall had gone entirely ashen. He didn’t appear capable of moving, even if someone had a sword to his back, urging him to take a single step. He swayed very slightly, steadying himself unconscious, gazing numbly down at the damage that had been done.

Sly hadn’t noticed, but Asha had; her hands fell away from her ears and locked over her mouth, stifling the half-scream that masqueraded as a gasp. Unable to manage standing, still, she dragged herself closer, mindless of the garnet stains smearing over her arms and skirt.

“Jacquotte, hear me,” Bron cradled the woman’s head, tone strong even as her words shook. “Your eyes are open, that’s a good sign… Say something to me.”

Her breathing was faintly shallow, but she still managed a rough, stunted laugh. “What is there to say…?”

“Do it,” Asha begged, looking to Lyall again. He only continued to stare at Jacquotte. “Lyall! Someone-… If you don’t speak now, she’ll pass on, and then… Then, she would not be as she once was, if you wish her back…!”

“You can revive the dead?” Bron looked to her sharply.

“N-no…! Yes, but… They never return as they used to be, there hasn’t been a soul who didn’t regret speaking the words,” Asha shrank into herself. “Bron, the damage-… She’ll die, and soon, you _must_ do it now before it’s too late. There…th-there won’t be time for anything else.”

“Asha,” Jacquotte gritted her teeth, but if she was attempting to speak out against it, she couldn’t find the words; the agony of her wound was setting in quickly, wracking her with spasms and dizziness.

“Then I wish-…”

“Wait!” Lyall found his voice again, stiff. “Careful, your wording…”

“I can’t control the wish, I only grant it,” Asha reminded shakily; Jacquotte, through the grey haze that was sweeping her vision, registered that tears had started spilling down the Maiden’s face. “So please…”

Bron’s grip on Jacquotte tightened and she spoke with deliberation, “I wish Jacquotte’s wound, the one she sustained in her most recent battle, to be mended – as though it never happened.”

Hastily, Lyall dropped to his knees by her side, as well, and pried the sword from her side. Jacquotte’s strangled yell was weak, but his judgment proved wise; as they watched, it was like seeing her sustain the injury in reverse. The blood seemed to seep right back, pulled from the ground and her clothing, and her body looked to be stitching itself back together starting from the inside out. When even her clothing mended, Lyall laughed a sigh of relief, unaware of how he’d been holding his breath for so long that his lungs were contracting and aching.

“Oh, thank the gods,” Bron sat back, wiping her bangs from her forehead – they had plastered themselves there with sweat.

Asha was doubled over in pain, the throbbing in her chest clearly overtaking any sense of gladness, but one hand reached out nonetheless and drifted towards Jacquotte.

The redhead caught her hand, and gave it a light squeeze. As she sat up carefully, she purposefully moved in order to put pressure where she’d sustained the injury, and felt no pain – seeing the look of agony on Asha’s face made it appear as though she’d taken it all on herself. Essentially, she had, Jacquotte realized.

“Squeeze my hand,” she instructed quietly, and immediately Asha clenched it with all the strength she possessed, minimal as it was.

She only let it go once the last terrible wave had ebbed away, like the tide receding off the shore. It left her feeling cold, but almost relaxed, simply glad that it was over. Asha reopened her eyes, and found that she was staring into hazel.

“Thank you,” Jacquotte muttered, not making any move to re-take Asha’s hand; instead, she lightly trailed her fingers down the side of the Maiden’s face, catching silvery strands that had stuck to her tear-stained cheeks and brushing them back. “I don’t think I can even begin to make you understand how grateful I am – you just saved my life.”

“Bron saved your life,” Asha corrected weakly. “She only used me to do it.”

Though Jacquotte didn’t reply aloud, the look that she gave could only be read one way –  _‘Whether you accept it or not, you have my thanks.’_

“Then you feel well?” Bron interrupted intently. “Your wound – it feels…”

“As though it never happened,” she confirmed.

“Good,” striding forward, Bron caught Asha by the wrist, just below her shackle, and hauled her up to her feet. “You ought to go with Lyall and take Sly with you, travel to the next town. Find an inn, buy yourself a stay for as many nights as it takes for me to return.”

“What?!” Jacquotte got to her feet, eyes narrowing. “Unhand her and tell me what you think you’re doing.”

“She’s more trouble than she’s worth,” Bron retorted, ignoring the wince that passed over Asha’s face from being held so firmly in her grip. “I’m completing this quest myself, as you’ve become too _enamored_ with her to see reason, anymore. I’ll take her to Felicitie, pass her over to the prince, and we’ll resume our lives as they once were.”

Lyall’s mouth opened, as though he were about to argue, but it closed again with only a look from Bron and his gaze dropped to his feet.

Jacquotte made no attempt to deny the accusations, instead responding fiercely, “There’s no telling what they’ll do with her, in Felicitie, but it’s guaranteed they intend to  _use_ her! Knowing the pain she experiences when that happens, you would just deliver her into their hands?”

“And what about our pain?” Bron shot back. “Grete is _dead!_ Sly’s gone mad! You were nearly slaughtered, all for the sake of her! If you won’t have her thrown back down that well, then she’ll be taken to Felicitie, even if I have to knock you out and drag the Maiden by the hair in order to do it!”

Asha was not struggling. The only indication that she cared at all was the way her eyes flickered back in the direction of the abandoned town, almost pleading with something unseen. Lyall took note, but his gaze fell on Grete’s covered corpse, again, and he said nothing.

“Locking her up again is torture,” Jacquotte was growing livid very quickly, “I won’t stand for it. Need I remind you, _I_ am the one who leads this Quintet -…”

“Quartet, now,” Sly piped up; he hadn’t even moved throughout the entire brawl, too focused on his equations, now dabbing his fingertips in the blood as it spread towards him.

“…My word is the one we ultimately follow,” Jacquotte’s anger had dipped slightly at the mention, and she looked anywhere but towards Grete’s body.

Bron let Asha’s wrist go, glowering, but she seemed to bow out of the argument as Jacquotte pulled rank. “As you say, then,” she muttered darkly.

Giving her a long, hard look, Jacquotte assisted Asha back to her feet, helping her find her footing again. Once she seemed independently sturdy, she began striding towards Sly, ignoring the huffing and snorting of the horses that remained; a few of them had run off, but there were still more than a few remaining to take them far away.

“We’ll get through the mountain paths and head South-East,” Jacquotte tried to bring Sly back onto his feet, but he batted her away. Regardless, she continued trying to pull him away from his writings. “We’ll wander until we hit the harbor, and then seek out a town. If we can’t purchase passage on a boat, we’ll commandeer one, ourselves… Cross the sea, find somewhere they don’t have talk of Maidens and the like, find somewhere to-…”

Bron had crept up on her. With a powerful blow from behind, her fist collided with the back of Jacquotte’s head, the cheap shot successfully knocking her out cold. The redhead pitched forward, Bron catching her before she could fall.

“Infinite choices,” Sly reminded her.

“Shut up,” Bron snapped in exasperation. “That’s enough out of you…”

“What do you think you’re doing?!” Lyall looked alarmed. “You heard her, you agreed-…”

“I agreed with nothing, and _to_ nothing,” hauling Jacquotte up over her shoulder, she carried her over towards one of the horses. Asha watched, torn, only remaining still.

“Then you honestly intend to bring Asha to Felicitie?!” Lyall, himself, couldn’t say for certain which direction his moral compass was trying to point him in, and fell back to the only sure standby he knew; keeping to Jacquotte’s side. “They’ll tear her apart, there!”

“They’d need to get through me to do it, and I’m stronger than anyone who would get in my way,” her eyes narrowed and her muscles flexed, “including _you_.”

He mouthed wordlessly, gaping like a fish out of water. Satisfied that he wouldn’t be foolish enough to actively try to stop her, she took hold of Asha’s waist and pulled her listless form over to one of the lawmen’s horses, heaving her up onto the saddle.

“I recommend you do as I told you, before, and if you truly care about Jacquotte, you’ll keep her far away from Felicitie,” Bron advised, losing some of her brashness. “It’s for her own good. The good of all of us, really – in time, she’ll see that.”

Lyall bit back any comment, watching in silence as she got up onto the horse’s back, trapping Asha in front of her and seizing the reins. She prompted the animal to turn, and had him take off at a quick gallop, a lash of her blonde braid the last thing Lyall saw before they were gone over the hill.

“She thinks she’ll find a happy ending, this way,” Sly supplied, after an achingly long silence. Lyall looked towards him, then at Jacquotte’s unconscious body, draped over the mare grazing on the sparse blades of grass that struggled to grow through the packed-down dirt.

“I don’t know what I should do,” he said hoarsely. “I… I’ve never been the type, who knew how to make a decision… There was only ever one decision that made any kind of sense, to me, and… I can’t very well look to her right now, now can I?”

Sly’s response was incoherent.

Lyall took several deep breaths, looking over the bodies littering the ground, and the plastic tarp. Slowly, hesitantly, he lifted the corner and scooped enough gold to serve them for the next short while into his hands, clenching his eyes shut as though doing so was causing him physical pain.

Blood money… Handling the coins that Grete had died for felt disturbing, and no matter how he tried to justify that they had nothing else, now, his brain kept screaming the wrongness at him.

“I’ll… I’ll take us to an inn, like Bron said,” he determined shakily. “When Jacquotte wakes, I’ll tell her everything that happened…and whatever she decides, I will follow her.”

Sly nodded sagely. “I knew that you would. I knew. I know.”

Lyall strode over to the mare, lightly bringing her back to attention. “Come on then, Sly… We shouldn’t spend another moment here…”

“I’m not leaving.”

Lyall froze. “What?”

“My choices will make no impact on the world as it is now,” he replied, as though it should have been obvious. “They make no impact on the world as it will be soon from now. The distant future, that’s a separate story, and I want no part in that one, but I won’t have a choice. If you could have any wish, what would it be?”

“Sly, there isn’t time for this,” Lyall sounded frustrated. “You’ll wither and die, out here, come along!”

“And so I die,” he sounded unnervingly detached. “I can be one death in a day, and ninety-nine thousand other people can follow me. We’ll toast to your failures, in the afterlife.”

Lyall tensed, jolted, when Sly laughed loudly, as though he’d just told a colossal joke that only he could possibly understand.

“…Sly, don’t do this.”

“It’s already done,” he answered, when he’d finally sobered. “Go on. Make your single choice out of infinite possibilities, leads to infinite futures, but there is one conclusion because there is a steady truth behind every decision made…”

Swallowing the stiff lump in his throat, Lyall carefully eased himself onto the mare’s back, eyeing Sly all the while. He looked entirely at ease, now, as though he’d made peace with whatever terrible knowledge had nestled into his consciousness. He went back to scrawling mathematics into the ground, occasionally gripping his head and face, never stopping.

Lyall prompted the horse to a cautious trot, and only looked back once.

 

***

 

“ _Maiden, Maiden, sorrow in your wake._

_I condemn you, for dear Jacquotte’s sake.”_

-          Bron's truth.


	9. Chapter VIII

_ Chapter VIII; Act II, scene vii _

 

It took the full day for Jacquotte to recover from Bron’s blow – perhaps she had hit her harder than intended, or it was possible that she’d meant to have her unconscious long enough to get a decent head-start, suspecting that the headstrong young woman would not let this stand. The sun had sank below the horizon several hours ago, and despite hunger and weariness, worry triumphed over all else. It prompted Lyall to sit by Jacquotte’s bedside until the flutter of her eyelashes signaled that she was waking.

They had arrived in the nearest town’s inn around midday, and with Jacquotte limp in his arms, the pair of them looked extremely suspicious. Years ago, Lyall would have fumbled over a fib; when questioned then, he simply laughed and claimed they had started in early on a day’s drinking. With a mischievous sort of wink, he bantered with the innkeeper’s pretty young wife about how new brides could be – the lilt of her giggle made him think she new all-too-well, indeed. Once she had given him a room with a single bed, he had draped Jacquotte over the mattress and proceeded to spend every hour since waiting.

He was so relieved to see her finally rouse that tears sprang to his eyes, and the worried lump that had lodged itself in his throat dissolved.

“Jacquotte?”

Some choice, colorful curses were hard to distinguish from the rustle of scratchy sheets, but they became much clearer as the world around her grew to be so. Lyall only remained quiet, waiting for her to be ready to face the reality of the situation.

However, she was already there. Her head was racing; Bron’s betrayal, the fact that Asha might likely already be forever out of her grasp…

If they made it to Felicitie, Jacquotte thought gravely, Prince Caietanus would have her. Jacquotte would be lucky to ever again lay eyes upon the Maiden. Asha would be his, to grant his wishes and be his wife – would he even know the pain it caused her, to grant them? More importantly, would he even care? That was assuming, of course, that Bron could manage to get them to the kingdom’s capital before they had every needy Hunter on the continent chasing after them. They would tear the muscled woman apart due to sheer numbers – she was strong, but only one person. With Jacquotte present, they would have been capable of far more…

But there was little use in dwelling on that now. She had no more time to sit and ponder what could be awaiting her ‘so-called’ right hand and the woman she was enamored with.

“The infamous Quintet,” she almost spat, the first clear sentence to leave her lips, aside from expletives. “Reduced to four and splintered apart…”

“Three,” Lyall quietly corrected. “I think-… I don’t think Sly is going to live for very much longer, out there. He was half-mad when we left him, didn’t even seem able to care for himself…”

“Then-…”

“He told us to leave him,” Lyall sighed, half-resigned. “We could go back for him, force it, but surely you saw the look on his face. He’s lost, Jacquotte.”

He could see in her eyes that she was prepared to argue – she would sooner forcibly bring Sly with them and  _beat_ the want to be there into his head, before she would leave him to die in the mountains. That was probably her plan to the letter, until he went on, “There’s still a hope of catching up to Bron, though.”

He didn’t say ‘Bron and Asha’ – neither of them wanted to bring up her name, first, as they knew full well the likelihood of retaking the Wishing Maiden was slim.

Jacquotte turned her face and gritted her teeth. Moving on without Sly would never sit comfortably with her.

‘ _We’ve already lost Grete. If Sly isn’t with us either, where does that leave us? How much more could we afford to lose?’_

It was a foolish question to ask herself; she already felt as though absolutely everything that had defined her as a person, much less the ‘leader’, was slipping out of her grasp.

…The only thing she had even the slightest chance of taking back was Asha.

She’d made her choice, already. Jacquotte was just reluctant to admit it to herself.

“…Alright,” she was sitting up carefully, testing the sensitive spot at the back of her head with a grimace. She was still thinking clearly enough; she’d avoided a concussion, she assumed. “Alright, then. Chart.”

Promptly, Lyall was heaving up his large leather bag and unclasping the secured flap, rifling through it to find the tightly-bound map, wound into such a strong tube that it could be mistaken for wood, if he were to hit someone with it. A possibility if he were to find himself without a weapon again, he reflected gloomily.

“We’ll plot a course to Felicitie, head her off,” Jacquotte muttered, fingers toying with the ends of her hair in contemplative habit. “If we don’t run into her in the city, we’ll work backwards. Follow the most likely trail for her to take – navigation is a weakness, for Bron, so the main roads-…”

“Unless she wished for better navigational ability,” Lyall pointed out.

“If she didn’t simply wish herself there,” scowling, Jacquotte indulged in a rather childish urge, smoothly drawing one of her knives from her belt and hurling it into the floor. It stuck between the boards, quivering back and forth from the force. The display of frustration only soothed her for a second.

“There are too many possibilities,” she almost snarled. “No telling what she wished, or didn’t wish – all we can do at this point is work under assumptions, and plot the quickest damned route. Well?”

Lyall watched the swaying dagger for a moment before forcefully diverted his eyes back to his chart as it was unraveled. Clearing his throat slightly, he spread it over the bedcovers, avoiding touching Jacquotte in any way for fear of inciting more anger.

She wasn’t angry, in truth; at least, not really. She was wallowing in every emotion that came before the anger – the betrayal, the hurt. The fear, above all else, had gripped her tight and had a relentless hold on every organ. It was stifling her breath, even making the beating of her heart more difficult; the life-pumping muscle was beating twice as fast, trying to overcompensate for the way cold anxiety was encompassing her.

It really was too soon to love Asha, she was telling herself again, but it couldn’t have mattered less. What she felt – had it a name, or not – was too strong to ignore. The idea of her being used any longer was too harsh to bear…and she would not, could not, let it be. Besides, who  _knew_ what a quick-tempered child like Caietanus would wish for?

Giving only one more thought back towards Sly, she clenched her fingers against her palm and breathed in. The decision was feeling easier by the moment.

“The quickest way to Felicitie would be to go towards the nearest large city, taking the main roads, then buying passage on a train…”

“Assuming a train is running, and they’re hardly dependable,” she dismissed the idea of using such a new (and thus far, only infrequently used) technology, getting up from the bed. She needed her knife back, and she needed to pace. “Our luck hasn’t been nearly promising enough, and if there isn’t one, we’ll be set back. No, we need something more direct, and I’d prefer it by my own power. Sitting around on a train… It would drive me mad…”

Giving her a quick glance – squared posture, jaw set, with that knife back in her hand, Lyall didn’t doubt her for a moment. She looked to be partway there, already.

“Then we move in a straight line. We hit rougher terrain, but avoid the main roads… Less likely to find Hunters to hold up our travel, more direct…”

“Then we’ll take that route.”

He’d had a feeling the ‘direct’ part would appeal to her.

Rolling up the scroll again, Lyall nodded several times. “I can go check on the horses, see if the kitchens will sell us anything from the pantries, prepare. I’ll have us ready to leave by morning.”

The ferocity managed to match the utter incredulity behind Jacquotte’s glower, as though she was flabbergasted that Lyall could say something so stupid. “We’re going now,” she sounded as though it ought to have been obvious. “Gather what we have, forget what we don’t need, and we’ll ride.”

“But it’s the middle of the night…!” Lyall protested, but weakened as the words left his mouth. Were the positions reversed, and Jacquotte was the one in danger, he wouldn’t be persuaded to wait.

“I hope you rested, while I was out cold,” she seized her boots – the only thing of hers, aside from her saber, Lyall had dared to remove when he put her on the bed – and began yanking them onto her feet, moving at a near-deadly speed. Thankfully, he noticed she’d put away the knife before she started rushing about.

…It was only a small comfort.

As she fussed with her boots, Lyall cast a quick look out the window, the threadbare curtains only partially closed and giving him a considerable view of the night sky. Cloudy, but bright; the deep navy was illuminated by silver-yellow light, which stretched down to the ground through the thick vapor. They could probably see well enough, he  _supposed_ … Perhaps if they were bringing along something else, like enough firewood to raze a small city. No – torches… The light of a campfire would only stave off the darkness in one fixed place…

Riding on horseback, with torches. That sounded reckless, at best. It would only get worse if he was incorrect, and they did happen upon Wish Hunters; holding onto an open flame and the horse’s reins was worrisome enough; if Jacquotte needed to grip those two things,  _and_ her sword…

“…How are we finding our way, in the dark?” he gave in despite his reservations, securing the bag closed again.

“We’ll go by lantern light, and hopefully the moon will remain bright enough until morning,” Jacquotte pulled the buckles of her boots and turned to grab her saber, propped against the wall. With a slight swish, she sheathed it again and let her hand rest on the handle as though it were a comfort.

So, a covered flame, rather than an open one – somehow, that wasn’t a great deal more encouraging.

“And we’ll get these lanterns from-…?”

He knew what answer was coming before she’d raised an eyebrow, lifted a hand, or made a sweeping gesture towards the room. Mounted to the walls were two simple lamps, producing the dim glow of a lit candle encased in glass.

“And this is the best plan we’ve got,” weakly, he sighed. “I wish-…”

“Don’t wish,” Jacquotte interjected crisply, more abrupt than she’d meant to be. “This is the only plan we’ve got, right now, and so we’ll force it to succeed or die trying.”

Lyall’s expression was opinion enough; he was dubious that they could make it even out of town, guided by such minimal light, but resolute. He would follow her, if she was so determined to leave that night…and come hell or high water, that was precisely what she intended to do.

 

_ Scene viii _

 

She had draped Asha in a thick, ratted cloak of brown, and instructed her to keep her shackles out of sight. It was the only time they had stopped, and it was only long enough to obtain the few things Bron was certain Asha needed – so long as they could afford it, of course, which meant there was very little they could get.

Most important of all, in Bron’s esteem, was the pair of tiny plugs and long, thick strip of cloth she had bought from an apothecary.

“When we’re in the presence of anyone at all, you are to wear these things,” she instructed. “Place them in your ears, and that ought to muffle the noise…then, I’ll tie this ‘round your head. Over your nose, covering your ears… I can tie it in the back, and that will give the sound just one more layer to work through. Best I’d be able to manage, I think, aside from _asking_ you to be deaf.”

At Asha’s request – which the Maiden hadn’t honestly expected to be heeded, without Jacquotte around to enforce the rule – Bron had replaced the word ‘wish’ in her vocabulary. At least, she was attempting to, only slipping up nearly.

“You intend to take me to this Prince Caietanus, do you not?” she had also asked timidly. “Why have you not simply…taken us there by my power?”

“Several reasons,” there was an air of retort to her tone, as though reprimanding Asha for something foolish she’d said. “I’d like to tell you it’s for _your_ benefit. After Grete’s death, though, I can’t say I care too deeply for your pain. Call it petty, if you like, but one of my friends is dead. I’d prefer the entire world hurt, instead of me.”

The way she’d brought back her shoulders and aggressively thrown her chest outward made her look as though she was indeed challenging everything before her, asking for an attack. Asha only nodded timidly, and clung to her more tightly.

Bron hadn’t needed to bind or threaten her into staying, once Jacquotte was out of sight.

“The most obvious reason for not wi-… For not _asking_ you to take us to Felicitie is because it could backfire, on me. Who knows how that power of yours would interpret it…? Maybe we would wind up thousands of feet above the castle, and drop to our deaths,” Bron snorted. “No… I’ll get us there by horse, drive off anyone who suspects you to be who you are, and have you out of our lives by this time next week at the latest. Jacquotte will need time to come to grips with all this loss, but she’ll be better for it.”

The clopping of hooves met Bron’s firm statement, and when Asha finally spoke, it was nearly drowned out by the noises of nature.

“Do you hate me, Bron?”

“… I hate what you’ve done to us,” she answered after a moment, which seemed to drag on and on. “For that matter – I hate what you’ve done to the world. You may have the ability to mend hurts, but you cause them far more often, don’t you?”

“Then you only resent me,” the Maiden didn’t answer the question; both knew what the truth was. “I cannot fault you for that.”

“Is that why I’ve had no need to bind you?” Bron snorted. “Your own self-loathing keeps you from trying to run away, back to Jacquotte?”

“It is self-awareness, not loathing,” Asha corrected, but she could have been lying. There was a quaver in her vowels; it could have been brought on by a mistruth, or by fear. “I know the sort of destruction I leave in my wake. Twisted things, where dreams used to be… Tangled like the tongues to speak them. They expect knots in cherry stems, but instead, I spit out the pit…”

“Jacquotte may find this habit of speaking nonsense endearing, but I haven’t the patience for it,” Bron interrupted with a low, imposing growl.

“I will not run back to Jacquotte.”

If that had been said as clarification, Bron was no less confused. Still, she didn’t prod any further, merely accepting that the Maiden was vowing – in her own unclear way – that she would not make the journey more difficult.

Every time they thought there had been a rustle in the distance, or a flash of color – be it real or imagined, Bron would nudge back, and Asha would plug her ears and sing softly to herself. They were not discernible words, the hulking woman noted; just idle notes with a distance to her voice, like they were part of a tune she’d once heard.

After the third time of prompting, Bron realized that Asha had simply left the ear plugs in, and she thought it for the better. The only reason she would ever require them being taken out was for the sake of conversation, and Bron was not particularly inclined to speak to her any more than was necessary.

She had driven her steed hard, even after the sun had set, and it took the fierce protest of her own stomach and limbs to finally prompt Bron to stop for the night.

Halting was a worrisome affair, if only because she knew entirely well that Jacquotte would not have let the darkness stop her. If she had regained consciousness – by now, surely, she would have – then she would be pursuing their trail… They hadn’t made it nearly far enough.

The road was too long, to simply ride on; the horse, too weary. Herself, too hungry. Lighting a fire and stopping to eat, it would create a beacon, and Jacquotte would know to follow it.

Aggravated, and beginning to wonder if she’d made a grave mistake, Bron pounded one fist against the trunk of a tree and sighed. The leaves rattled, disrupting whatever creature had made a home in the branches, and she quickly withdrew her hand at the sound of a squeak.

“Damnation,” she cursed below her breath, not noticing in the dark that Asha had reached up to remove the things impeding on her ability to hear.

“Bron…?”

Quickly, she looked down towards the more petite woman, ignoring how she recoiled. “What is it?”

“We won’t get to Felicitie before Jacquotte gains on us,” she was folding her cloak over her hands. “If she catches me, she will certainly never forgive you… and, while I admire your foresight, to block my ears…”

“It’s still a great risk,” Bron sighed, and for the first time since they departed, she was speaking to Asha like a person, rather than ‘the enemy’. “I had to take you, on my own. Jacquotte will see it, eventually, so long as you aren’t around to blind her heart… She would not have been able to part with you, logic be damned. Meanwhile, I can’t help but think that we were never meant to find you.”

“I can’t help but think that, also,” Asha murmured.

With her eyes adjusted to the dark – though, truthfully, it wasn’t so difficult to see through such a bright night – Bron watched Asha’s face, and couldn’t determine what emotion was playing upon it. She was plainly trying to hold a blank one, but there was something sinister lurking underneath, threatening to show.

“Despite how I may have acted, I don’t think of you as a monster,” stepping forward, Bron drove her palm against her face, shoving back long strands of hair that had somehow escaped her braid. “You regret Grete’s death, true?”

“Yes, as I regret a great many things.”

“Do you feel sorry for her death, or Jacquotte’s loss?” she then challenged.

“Can it not be both?”

She was mild, and sad, but she wasn’t saying what Bron wished to hear – or rather, she couldn’t read it from her answers, her tone, anything in her demeanor.

She would simply have to ask.

“Are you in love with Jacquotte?” her eyes grew narrow, and the bluntness of the question wasn’t quite as striking as the way she began to intently scrutinize every facet of her expression.

There was still…nothing. An infuriating lack of answers.

“I cannot love her,” she responded, though, and Bron had to take it as truth. “It would not matter anyway, would it? I am not _like_ her, or you. I should not have been taken from the well, but now that I have… I belong in Felicitie, as promised. I can help you get there, there’s little point in trying to arrive safely on foot, or horseback.”

“Wishes are not my strength,” she cooled, again, and ignored how the Maiden flinched.

“I can instruct you on what to say,” she promised. “We will manipulate the phrasing, together, and then you can ask it of me. No matter how long it takes, Jacquotte will not have the time to locate us. If she does, it will be far too late.”

“…You could be attempting to manipulate _me_ , right now,” Bron pointed out warily. “Stalling for time until Jacquotte arrives, so you can implore her to take you away. I’ll be left here for dead, no doubt, if you don’t warp a you-know-what to kill me, first.”

“You are the one to make the wish, not I,” she managed not to flinch when she spoke the word, though there a reflexive kind of twitch from her fingers, as though prepared to grasp onto whatever was nearest to prevent her from collapsing. “You are cleverer than some might assume, given your strength… You are not a brainless brute. If I were trying to kill you, I wouldn’t know which weapon to use, because you are too sensible to ask me for death.”

There it was again; something unreadable but unmistakably sad, in her. Bron didn’t get a good enough look at it in time to pick it apart.

“You could still be stalling,” she pointed out.

“We need to stop anyway,” Asha shook her head slightly, “do we not? This will be more productive. Besides, I may not be in _love_ with Jacquotte as she wants me to be, but… I care for her enough to know I ought to not be in her life.”

There was still just a touch of hesitation, though Bron had to confess, wishing themselves there was the most efficient way to get them there. They would avoid so much danger, and this would be  _done_ with, in the blink of an eye. Bron wouldn’t even demand the prince keep up his end of the bargain entirely; all she wanted was to be safe in the knowledge that she, Jacquotte, and Lyall – Sly, too, if he were still alive, though she had doubts squirming about inside her brain – would never be pursued. What did coin matter, now?

She hadn’t been paying Asha close enough attention, and was thus shocked when she felt the frail, cold hands on either side of her face. The Maiden was bringing her down closer, and for a startling moment, Bron thought she was about to be kissed. Even more unsettling, she had been about to  _permit_ such a thing, despite never having before entertained such thoughts.

“If what’s stopping you is concern over the pain I will feel, forget that,” she assured her quietly. “It is not so terrible. Better we get this all done, quickly.”

Bron gripped slender forearms and pushed Asha away from her without much force. Strangely, and annoyingly, that  _did_ lessen her reluctance considerably.

‘ _Wishes may have killed Grete, but even anger over losing her can’t seem to erase the truth that Asha is a person from my mind…’_

She almost would have preferred she lose whatever scraps of morality she still had. That would have made it easier to lash out.

“Alright,” Bron nodded stiffly, and went to take the reins of the beast grazing nearby. “How shall I say it?”

“You’re overcomplicating it, in your mind,” Asha took a few steps to follow. “You only get what you ask for – just being precise is enough. Where is it we need to go, exactly?”

“The castle, in the capital of Felicitie.”

“The kingdom of Felicitie,” Asha expanded. “Where, in the castle?”

“Just outside it would do.”

“That could take us farther than you mean to go…”

“Or drop us in the ocean,” Bron muttered pensively. “Alright – the courtyard. Take us there.”

“Who is the ‘us’ to take there? And specify when, on the side of caution.”

“The two of us – well, make that three. Myself, you, and the horse, I suppose.”

Asha nodded, but then shook her head, “If we leave the horse, the tracks may divert Jacquotte, if she follows them. Now, phrase it.”

Thinking better of it, the hulking woman agreed; she had to confess, if Asha truly was trying to trick her into ensuring they were found, she was doing a marvelous job of concealing it.

“Take the two of us to the courtyard of the castle, in the capital city of the kingdom of Felicitie, now,” Bron rattled off, and was met with another approving bob of Asha’s head.

“That ought to do it. Now include the word.”

It appeared that the repetition was grating on Bron’s nerves, but she repeated word-for-word what she had said, preceded by the word ‘I wish’.

 

Months of waiting with his ear to the ground had set Balthazar at the very edge of his patience.

The people of Felicitie had grown manic; there were rallies every other day, demands that no mere mortal could meet being cried from the streets, the once-peaceful people of the kingdom creating their own chaos for want of greater things. Acts of heroism, great drama, stories of incredible deeds to swap with each other; it seemed that the quiet they’d formerly lived in had left them in want of much more, and  _something_ had tipped them over the edge.

Balthazar was not much better. It was taking greater restraint than he even knew he had to keep from shoving the prince to the floor, every time Caietanus turned that arrogant gaze upon him. The fantasies he’d kept to himself of seizing power and putting his so-called ‘superior’ under his feet were drifting farther and farther away from him…and yet, he yearned so much more fiercely than he’d ever experienced.

It was becoming unbearable, and he was smart enough to know that if he didn’t put some distance between himself and the prince, he would break.

All the explanations would have to come later, he decided. It would be far simpler to accept a punishment for stealing away without warning then it would be trying to explain-… And the consequence would be far greater, more severe than Balthazar cared to deal with.

He’d gathered what he thought he would be able to take, from his chambers. Expensive trinkets and rich cloths to pay his way, garb that could be considered appropriate for a middle-class peddler, not much in the way of food but plenty of wine; he would be able to buy a good meal just about anywhere he went, having no intention of frequenting slums, but his alcohol was a different matter.

It wasn’t nearly enough, he determined. Nothing would have him living in luxury, the manner to which he was accustomed, but it would  _suffice_ . Grabbing the hooded cloak he always wore when slipping through Felicitie’s back streets, he hauled the heavy pack over his shoulders and grumbled. If only he could have tasked a servant with carrying such things  _for_ him…

He wouldn’t be able to go very far. He ran too many risks of the Maiden eluding his grasp – who knew what moronic wishes the prince would make, if it took Balthazar too long to return? Perhaps the next city over, he mused.

At the very least, he would probably be able to find some street urchin with more greed than sense and hire them for labor. It would just be a matter of locating one that wouldn’t run off with his things, instead.

Quietly, he closed his bedroom door, only giving one last look to the chaos he was leaving behind. The bedcovers had been rumpled, window thrown open, blown-out candle spilling wax across the floor, and papers in disarray. He was hoping Caietanus would assume they’d been burgled, and taken his advisor hostage; the  _‘how’_ of it wouldn’t matter.

Balthazar was by no means stealthy, but careful enough to make his way towards the winding staircase very quietly. As he descended, he only cast fleeting glances out to the night sky, without the slightest appreciation for the bright blue of night or the gentleness of the ocean, tonight. If he had been intended on crossing it, perhaps…

‘ _It is a good night to flee.’_

Perhaps the tranquility would lead Caietanus to think the supposed criminal had taken off across the water.

Whether it was paranoia at work or something else, he continued to look out every window he passed, as though searching for someone who might see him depart. The lawmen were not serving in their capacity very well, as of late, spending their nights drinking and cavorting as their base urges suggested. He knew the castle’s layout like the back of his hand, as well, and knew their patrols just as well. He had timed everything perfectly, and would not be spotted unless something was to go terribly awry.

As his foot touched the stone of the ground floor, he paused just long enough to listen. There was no clink of armor, no dim rumble of conversation between bored guards. He was still in the clear.

It was a good thing, for him, that he was so compulsive in his worry that he continued to glance out every window, and spotted the two figures in the courtyard. One of them, broad shouldered and as imposing as a giant, was securing something around the daintier companion’s head, tying a long band of cloth. The moonlight caught on silver hair, making it shimmer as she buckled. She appeared to be in pain, and Bron only barely caught her in time, pulling the fragile Maiden against her chest.

Slowly, Balthazar lowered his pack, and his face split in a wide, triumphant grin.


	10. Chapter IX

_ Chapter IX; Act II, scene ix _

 

 

Where wildness was blooming in place of tranquility, the dying bustle of Midsuvi, to the North, had churned and become strife. They seemed to be attempting to follow in Rayia’s footsteps, as they had begun conquering nearby lands and spreading their boundaries. Though war had yet to be declared, the entirety of the nation knew that they were preparing for just that; blacksmiths had stopped smelting horseshoes and begun making weapons by the dozens, shoemakers were using their leather for slings and armor, and there was a general feeling of restlessness settling over the populace.

The only positive light that could be shed on the situation was that fewer were withering to the brink of death, now that they had been united by one goal. Their King, naively, was throwing about wild propositions – lowered taxes for every city they took, promises of women and wine, vows that the name of every new soldier would go down in history to eventually become the subject of songs. Effective as his pledges were for boosting morale, no one seemed to piece together that the things he said weren’t feasible to carry out. More aptly, perhaps, no one  _cared_ .

With the Midsuvians encroaching on their Northern border, there ought to have been a call to arms – war, it seemed, was an inevitability. Nothing was more likely to provide an outlet for the growing hostility, in Felicitie, and it was better that such destructive energy be directed at someone other than a fellow countryman. The prince had been resolutely ignoring the issue, more focused on his own concerns and dismissive of any and all suggestions from his advisor…though, to be fair, he didn’t seem willing to let Balthazar have a word in edgewise. He would muse aloud, gripe, and get angry, all the while demanding nothing but a ‘Yes, my Lord’ from his underling. The situation, as Balthazar had been prepared to leave him in, was grave.

With arrival of the Maiden nearly to their front door, he could change  _everything_ , in only a few words.

Shoving the bag he had stuffed full beneath the stairwell in a hasty afterthought, he swept towards the grand entranceway at a bustle, every step hitting the floor faster with eagerness. Why he was so certain that the petite, silver-haired woman outside was the Maiden of lore, he couldn’t say for sure. There was an  _air_ about her, he supposed – she was weak, unique, as delicate and as beautiful as a sculpture built from flower petals, but there was something  _more_ to her. Something he couldn’t tangibly see, like potential, but it was still there, tempting him.

If he was wrong, though, and she was simply a  _girl_ …

He would consider his options once he’d confirmed whether or not it was truly the Wishing Maiden.

As he’d honestly expected, the guards that were meant to be stationed at the front door had meandered off to indulge whatever whims had crossed their minds, leaving the advisor with his less-than-mentionable strength to heave the barricades and locks aside. Leaving through a window would have been far less work, he reflected, but he couldn’t very well claim innocence if the two women outside were to be invited into the castle.

Bron was finishing tying the thick band of cloth, the plugs already secure and muffling the sounds around them; the process forced Asha to wait, her knees shaking badly as her chest contracted and seized with the pain of her heart attempting to stop. Strong arms caught her when she fell forward at last, unable to hold herself upright any longer and trembling badly; she felt as though she’d gone blind, as well as deaf, every sense dulled by the all-consuming fire blazing through her torso.

Granting permission never made the agony of granting wishes lesser. She would have given anything, she thought, if that could be changed.

The massive doors opened enough for Balthazar to slip through, the advisor lowering his hood and composing his expression into one of wonder. It didn’t take much effort, for the potential of the Wishing Maiden’s presence truly  _was_ a marvel; he had been staving off his sensible doubts regarding her existence since the whole mess of rumors had begun.

“Ho, there,” he called, trying to also inject caution into his demeanor. “Approach.”

Bron looked his way, then heaved Asha more upright. She was clearly still recovering, and hadn’t heard Balthazar – at least part of that was exactly as planned. Nodding over to him, she decided the quickest way was to pick up the Maiden like a lad with his new bride. Asha gasped lightly, but made no protest.

“You’re of the royal court?” Bron asked brusquely.

“I am,” as much as he resented that he went unrecalled, it didn’t surprise him in the least. He, himself, could remember Bron exactly…but then, it was difficult to forget a stature like hers.

“Take us to Prince Caietanus, then, we haven’t time to waste.”

Just barely – and the struggle was insurmountably difficult – Balthazar managed to contain his irritation with Bron’s presumptuousness. “His Highness is asleep, at this moment, but I will happily wake him if given adequate reason. Come inside, where we’ll have more privacy…”

There was a greater risk of being overheard and someone taking advantage of the Maiden’s ears outside – never had he been so pleased that their guards had fallen to their vices. A quick glance-over of Asha’s face, however, clued him in as to what they’d done to prevent her from hearing. As he’d suspected, it wouldn’t be as simple as declaring his wish and reaping the benefits…

If only Bron weren’t so obviously capable of snapping him like a twig. He assumed she was acting as bodyguard, and the protective hold she had on the Maiden certainly did nothing to refute his guess.

Following him through the castle doors, Bron strode forward with her eyes darting about, Asha behaving in a similar manner. She had greater reason to fear; such a place was to be her home, she realized, though she would probably be lucky to see all of it. She could only imagine she’d be locked away, forced into another tiny cell as cramped as the well, but she would be tended to. Probably by mutes, she thought bitterly. This prince would not be the first to cut out the tongues of his servants so that they could not wish upon her.

Balthazar led them towards the throne room, and both women visibly tensed when he bolted the double doors shut.

“No need to worry,” he chuckled. “Just a precaution! There are guards milling about, somewhere… I’d hate for them to take _advantage_ of two treasured guests. Please, make yourselves comfortable…you may remove what deafens the Maiden, if you’d like – am I correct? She _is_ the Maiden?”

Unable to hear, Asha’s gaze fixed on Balthazar’s lips, trying to interpret his words through sight. Bron nodded once, curtly saying, “She is. If it needs proving, I shall linger as long as it takes for him to make his first wish.”

“And to retrieve your reward…?”

“The only reward a care for is a signature, declaring the Red Quintet to be untouchable by your lawmen,” she replied evenly. “I trust you have such a document already written, in preparation.”

“Yes,” Balthazar lied smoothly, “of course. If you’d like, I can perform this test, myself. No need to have you wait for any longer than you must.”

“I would rather wait for the prince.”

“…Hm,” it was taking an exhausting amount of his energy, now, to hide how her caution was grating on his nerves. “Very well, I’ll go fetch him, myself. Shan’t be long, but I recommend you leave the doors sealed, until I return with him.”

“And how will I know it’s you at the door?”

“I’ll knock,” he smiled thinly. “Five times consecutively should suffice, do you think?”

“Follow it with five more, on the side of caution,” Bron appeared unwavering, but this suspicion, Balthazar was greatly in favor of. He nodded and sank into a short bow – one of the last he would ever have to give, he silently vowed – and went to unbar the doors.

He lingered outside the throne room to hear Bron seal the locks, again, before taking off back towards the staircase, nearly at a run.

He needed to calm himself. There was nothing to be gained by winding himself in excitement. The Wishing Maiden was only a step away from his grasp, as was the kingdom, the power he was only too deserving of, and Caietanus himself…

Heading up the steps and taking them two at a time, Balthazar moistened his dry lips and walked the familiar route towards the prince’s chambers, rapping shortly on the door. Pressing his ear to the door, there was no sign that he’d roused.

‘ _For this news, he will forgive the intrusion.’_

And if he did not, he wouldn’t have the capability of punishing him for very much longer.

Ducking back towards his own bedroom, he withdrew a long golden key from his bedside table, righting some of the mess he made quickly while he was at it simply to expend some of his nervous glee.

Maintaining the façade was more important now than it ever was. Balthazar took in deep, slow breaths, and went back to unlock the door to his master’s quarters.

Caietanus was deeply asleep, unworried in his unconsciousness despite not having the right to be. Very slightly, Balthazar’s eyes narrowed in resentment, which was shoved back as so often practiced. Gently, he laid a hand upon the prince’s back and lightly shook him awake.

“My Lord,” he whispered. “I beg your forgiveness, my Lord… You need to wake…”

Childishly, a grumble of protest escaped royalty’s lips. Balthazar’s lips twitched faintly, and he redoubled his efforts. “My Lord, the Wishing Maiden awaits you in your throne room…!”

That grabbed his attention well enough. His eyes opened, crystalline irises fogged by sleep, pupils expanded wide to make out his advisor’s features in the dark. Quickly, he sat up, and all traces of tiredness were gone.

“I must dress. How do I look, otherwise? Presentable?” Caietanus demanded rather than questioned, untangling the sheets from around him, smoothing his hair back hastily.

“Yes, my Lord,” Balthazar inclined his head and diverted his eyes to the floor, and for a change, he didn’t need to lie. The prince was grabbing clothing from his expansive armoire, carelessly dressing himself overtop of his bedclothes, which were minimal.

“You’ve seen her already,” Caietanus shot the advisor a look over his shoulder as she shrugged on his jacket. “Tell me of the Maiden – is she beautiful?”

“Lovely, my Lord.”

“As lovely as I might expect, or unremarkably so?” he was only bothering to button the jacket partway in his rush, speeding along the process however he deemed acceptable.

“You will not feel unfortunate to have her, my Lord.”

“I have my doubts,” Caietanus turned up his nose slightly, snapping his fingers to prompt Balthazar forward, and he tilted forward only enough for the other man to place the crown upon his head. “I could have any maiden I so desired… I may have to _wish_ her different, if she doesn’t reach my standards. I’ll settle for no less than the most beautiful woman on the continent. Or the entire world, perhaps, if I feel greedy.”

‘ _As you always do,’_ Balthazar thought bitingly.

He had laced his boots loosely and cast himself only a quick glance in the mirror before striding out the door, Balthazar following at his heels. For Caietanus, who was used to getting what he wanted in a timely manner, he was moving at a remarkably – and  _annoyingly_ – languid pace, when it was all Balthazar could do to keep from running towards the throne room with all the dignity of a dog chasing after a bone.

“I’m to knock ten times, before she’ll let us back in. It sounds as though your Maiden has been guarded well, my Lord,” Balthazar approached the locked doors while the prince looked on with an impatient frown. In quick succession, they counted out ten raps against the door, the metal knocker leaving a faint ringing in his ears.

Within the throne room, Bron easily unlocked the door and opened it just a crack, eyeing Balthazar. “The prince?”

Promptly, Balthazar was waved aside, Caietanus needing to lift his gaze only a little to look the woman in the eye. “Move aside promptly,” he commanded. “My Maiden is in there, is she?”

“She is not _your_ Maiden unless you have freedom for myself and the rest of the Quintet in hand,” Bron gave him a look of warning, which he smoothly seemed to brush off.

“Of course. My advisor has them, don’t you, Balthazar?”

“Yes, my Lord,” he fibbed again, head once again bowed. “They will be in your custody once His Highness confirms that this Wishing Maiden is genuine.”

Regarding them both briefly, Bron stepped back at last, letting them in to see Asha seated on the floor, too weak from the aftershocks to stand. Her skirt had fanned out around her, and in the warm light, she looked faintly less pale. Her presentation of herself must have appeased the prince, as one of the rare genuine smiles was tugging at his lips, plainly pleased.

“Well, some parts of the tales are true, at least,” he stepped forward, and offered her his hand. She eyed it warily, but accepted it.

“I’ve deafened her with cloth and plugs, as you no doubt observed,” Bron crossed her arms over her chest, regarding them the way a lioness might watch her cub play with a hyena.

“I see,” immediately, Caietanus made to remove the blockages, indignant when she flinched away from him.

“Allow me,” for reasons beyond her, Bron was feeling increasingly uncomfortable with the idea of sending Asha into the prince’s arms, but the shakiness of her conscience wasn’t enough to deter her entirely. She physically took Asha away from him, steering her with one arm around her waist to keep her supported. She considered trying to reassure her, but even if Asha could make out the words, she was too uncomfortable to even say them.

For the first time since her departure, doing this  _felt_ like a betrayal. Maybe it was indeed what was best for Jacquotte, but…it didn’t sit right.

Bron’s hands were moving, unknotting the cloth band, which fell away and draped loosely around her neck. Grimly, she was reminded of the gallows.

Asha moved on her own, from there, shakily raising her hands and dislodging the soft plug from her ear.

“I wish the only words Prince Caietanus can say are the words, ‘Yes, my Lord’.”

She could hear well enough. It happened too fast.

Caietanus hadn’t the time to register the betrayal, clutching at his throat the way Asha seized at her chest; the Maiden fell forward against Bron, going rigid from the attack on her heart, and the prince groped blindly for the wall, or Balthazar’s shoulder – any support would do, as he doubled over and began to cough, hacking up a thin, black bile.

It looked as though he was spitting ink, Balthazar realized. He backed away, skittish – had he phrased it wrong? He had gone over the words again and again, in his head, lulling himself to sleep with them each night…

Caietanus wiped his mouth, and the fury set in. He paid no heed to the agonized Maiden, hotly glaring at his advisor and parting his lips to condemn him:

“My Lord-…”

He stopped.

Balthazar began to smirk.

“ _Yes_ , my-… My Lord, yes, my-…” Caietanus sputtered, looking almost sickly, disgusted as he could manage no other words. Balthazar began to laugh almost uproariously, entirely ignoring the tense stare from Bron and the way Asha was rapidly paling.

 

***

 

 

“ _To your knees, my Lord –_

_I’ll not be ignored._

_If you please, my Lord,_

_Onto the ground._

_It should be, my Lord,_

_That I am adored._

_Worship me, my Lord,_

_Watch as I’m crowned._

 

_Your surprise, my Lord,_

_You cannot afford._

_So unwise, my Lord;_

_Here, by my heel!_

_Kiss my ring, my Lord,_

_That’s my due reward._

_I am king, my Lord –_

_Kneel, my Lord,_ _**kneel** _ _.”_

  * Balthazar’s victory.




 

 

***

 

“Years,” he choked on his laughter, “for _years_ I have waited… Sweeter than I could have even imagined.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Caietanus growled, and losing all the composure a prince was meant to have, he lunged for the man his hands outstretched.

A life of being spoiled and pampered had left him inexperienced, but not weak. It was easy to overpower Balthazar, but they were unevenly matched; a lifetime of being sneaky and building resentment had the royal advisor fighting back less than fairly. His elbow jabbed against Caietanus’s throat as the two of them went down, painfully jutting into his windpipe, and the ragged gasp wasn’t quite enough to cover Balthazar’s next exclamation.

“I wish I were in the prince’s position,” he growled with a half-chuckle; both were surprised when he was abruptly overtop of the larger man, coughing as Caietanus’s elbow thrust against his neck. With a roll of his eyes, he pushed against his chest to sit up and get away, coughing deep, dry wheezes.

“I suppose that was my own fault,” he scowled, and fended off another assail of angry fists. “I wish Caietanus could do me no harm!”

Immediately, the prince’s limbs went slack, and he simply lay on the floor with a venomous look in his eyes. Allowed to bask in his triumph again, Balthazar dusted his hands off and let a foot plant against his chest as he stood.

“I wish _no one_ could do me any harm,” he almost purred, immensely self-satisfied and tuning out Asha’s short cry of pain. She had collapsed so entirely into Bron that she could hardly stumble for fear of the Maiden collapsing heavily to the floor; she was nothing but dead weight, shaking hard and steadily soaking Bron’s sleeve with the tears streaming from her eyes.

“I knew you came off as a rat,” Bron scowled darkly, trying to quickly lower Asha to the floor without hurting her. “Your plan all along, I take it?”

“Do you intend on taking power from me?” Balthazar challenged, but she was quick to shake her head. Nonetheless, it didn’t escape his notice that she was trying to stifle the sounds again, seeking the earplug that had slipped out of her fingers, other hand clamped against the side of the Maiden’s head. She looked close to unconsciousness, for the pain.

“You know what I want,” her voice stood firm. “I only care for the Quintet’s freedom – nothing more. What you do with Asha is your business.”

“Ah, at last, we learn the mythical Wishing Maiden’s name,” he sneered slightly, snapping his fingers crisply. “Asha!”

Dimly, her teary eyes reopened, and her head tilted in his direction. She was listening.

“I wish that all of the kingdom recognized me as their rightful ruler,” he was nearly drowned out by Caietanus’s angry shout of, “ _Yes, my Lord_ ,” and Asha’s voice broke mid-scream at the relentless assault of spoken desires.

“She’s giving too much of herself…!” Bron shouted, and decided she could stand for it no longer; she let Asha slip from her arms, cradling her head before the floor could crack her skull. Her attempt to lurch forward fell short, however, as she only made it a single step before she froze. It was as though she’d forgotten what her intentions were, and the absolute puzzlement on her face made Balthazar chortle with smug joy.

“You had intent to attack me, did you? Your _king?_ ”

“I was not born in Felicitie, nor have I ever hailed from here,” Bron hissed. “I do not recognize you as ruler of any kind.”

“A pity,” Balthazar glanced down at the fallen prince, Caietanus staring at him with a myriad of opinions written across his countenance. One that clearly spoke of loathing and betrayal – another one being the result of his wish, a begrudging kind of reverence that came from being in the presence of royalty. Stepping over him, he ordered carelessly, “Get up and unlock the doors. Maiden, I suggest you cork your ears again, lest the lawmen use you as I did.”

There was a broken whimper from Asha, and she fought against her weakness to scan for the plug, scrambling to deafen herself again.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Bron shot at Balthazar, but she knew before he’d even said anything. Her expression went slightly wild – her best chance at escape would be to bolt through the window, and if she had to fight her way out of Felicitie, it would still be a better fate than rotting away in a cell.

Unless, it dawned on her, Balthazar intended to have her killed where she stood.

He was making his way towards the throne, removing his cloak with a sneer and draping it carelessly on his old seat beside the royal throne. Slowly, purposefully, he sank into it with a look of ecstasy. This was where he’d belonged for so long, and he reveled in the rush of power it gave him.

Caietanus had undone the locks, and he indicated for him to come forwards, though his eyes remained on Bron. With a wicked smile, he leaned to his left and grabbed the dangling chain of the prince’s alarm bell, pulling hard.

The clanging could probably be heard all the way over in Libsmene. Balthazar cringed, and Asha – oversensitive, already – clasped her hands tightly over her ears, sobbing soundlessly. Bron didn’t waste another second, throwing the Maiden one last, hard look before running at the window.

“It’s no use!” Balthazar yelled, in part to hear himself, but he didn’t lift a finger and she crashed through the half-open window. She hit the ground shoulder-first, thankful for the leather guard that took the brunt of the blow. Grass tore from the earth as she skidded, making her grit her teeth as friction chafed and burned at what little of her skin was bared, but she didn’t let that hinder her. On her feet in a flash, she took off running back to the main streets, not intending on stopping until she was far over the city border.

Balthazar sank deeper against the plush throne, surveying the room before him, deep in thought. Caietanus was dropping to one knee before him, a look of revulsion drawing every feature inward – by all that was good in the world, how he’d  _longed_ to see him like that – while the Wishing Maiden huddled on the floor, listless and ghost-white. The doors were bursting open as the lawmen invaded the shocking quiet, swords already drawn and wearing eager expressions, plainly looking for a fight.

“Trouble, Your Highness?” the man leading the pack asked, slightly winded. Balthazar felt another pleasant kind of tingling in his limbs, and wondered if the feeling was the closest any mortal man could get to feeling like a god.

“An ogre of a woman is on the run,” he drawled. “If you can’t bring her back before me, killing her will suffice… However, there’s no need to pursue her past the city walls. Chased off will do, I suppose.”

With wide, violent smiles, they bowed at the waist without sparing a single glance to the true prince, turning on their heels to leave the castle.

Bron would have to be a fool to attempt to return for the Maiden, he reflected, but he didn’t want to take the chance. He’d seen the sympathy flash through her eyes, and there a streak of heroism in the Quintet that was bothersome. For a band of thieves, they could be strangely moral – the evidence was before him, her silver hair concealing her face and her legs tucked against her torso. Asha’s hands were still over her ears. She looked so pitiful that even Caietanus managed a look of sympathy, before it was replaced with contempt and resentment.

If it were not for her presence, he wouldn’t be in such a demeaning position. There were a few words being uttered beneath his breath, which Balthazar found wholly hilarious, knowing precisely how he intended them to sound without being able to form them properly.

“My _prince_ ,” he sneered. “You will do all I say?”

“Yes, my Lord,” he gritted his teeth.

“And you, Maiden… Oh, come now,” he snapped, and rose quickly from his throne. He gripped her by the arm and hauled her up, surprised that he was able to hoist her with such ease. For a moment, he thought she had somehow made him stronger; in truth, and he had to grudgingly come to terms, she seemed more and more like a mere slip of a person with every wish.

Balthazar couldn’t have cared less for her welfare, but he had what he desired. He would not abuse her talents any more, for the time being.

“We’ll ensure you’re made comfortable, shall we?” he laughed, and pushed her towards the kneeling prince. He didn’t move quite in time, catching her as best he could as he stood, again at Balthazar’s prompting.

“She can have _your_ chambers, Caietanus,” he commanded. “We’ll have her locked away in there, with a sole key in my possession…”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“After she’s upstairs and the door is locked, go to the quarters of every servant in the castle. Have every other key to your room melted down.”

“Yes, my Lord,” his throat was growing hoarse as he resisted saying the detested words.

Asha, despite not hearing a word, could read the purpose as plain as though it were written down for her. She was to be held captive again.

As much as part of her felt it was for the better, the recognition that it was far too late to matter had begun to sink in and sicken her to the core.

Dimly, she almost wished that Jacquotte would come rescue her again.


	11. Chapter X

_ Chapter X; Act III, scene i _

 

 

“ _Please, take me from this place._

_Run to me; I beg you, don’t lose pace.”_

 

 

***

 

Trekking through wild, overgrown forest floor was just as dangerous on horseback as it was on foot. Jacquotte refused to give them even the slightest reprieve; they could make it to the next town, she would say. The next one, she’d say after that. No use in stopping, not when there was potential to make it just a little farther before they broke stride – one more town over, and they would halt long enough to rest, to eat, and look again over the map to look for any sort of shortcut to Felicitie.

It wasn’t until the horses were ready to drop dead from exhaustion that she acquiesced to Lyall’s near-shouting protests, dismounting with a frustrated growl and spitting into the dirt as though cursing it. Her steed, on the other hand, seemed to revive and commenced grazing upon the plentiful grass, trotting a few steps forward and leaning against a tree, thoroughly worn out.

“Every moment wasted is a moment the world could be changing around us,” she snarled, glowering at Lyall as though he had been the one to set limitations on their bodies. “Who knows whether or not Asha has been caught, or if she’s even alive…”

“She lived a hundred years with no food or water at the bottom of a well, it’s unlikely she would be done in now,” Lyall reminded her firmly, and at the mention, he shoved a skein of water towards her. “Unlike the two of us, however, who still need replenishing. Lucky one of us hasn’t passed out and taken a fall off a horse, already.”

“Bron, then,” she clearly needed to argue, though she uncapped the leather canteen and drank.

“I think it’s miraculous you still worry about Bron at all,” tiredly, Lyall collapsed on the ground, nature tickling him unpleasantly. He was hardly worried about the cold from the ground seeping into him; he hadn’t the strength to build a fire, and it was the middle of the day. They would have to continue travelling by night, he was regretfully aware, but so long as he was given a few hours of sleep, he could go on.

Jacquotte appeared to be determined to slough off such human limitations, though, and her restlessness was contagious. As much as he wanted to simply close his eyes and drift off, he couldn’t.

“Of course I care,” she slumped down as well, catching her breath. Reminding her body of thirst had been a mistake, she thought ruefully. All at once, every organ seemed to pull at her attention – her starved stomach, her full bladder, aching muscles, heavy eyelids.

Lyall laughed quietly, and the noise sounded much the way she felt. “Of course. I admire that about you, Jacquotte… You can still feel concern for one of your own, even after they’ve betrayed you.”

“Just because I feel like a martyr for still caring, it doesn’t mean I am one.” Briefly, she let her eyes drift closed, and found that lifting them again felt like climbing a mountain with bare hands and feet. “I hope she survives whatever she encounters, and then moves on. I can’t forgive her for what she’s done.”

“…What part of what she’s done?” Lyall asked quietly. “Throwing the Wishing Maiden to the wolves, or taking your love away from you?”

The gravity of the conversation was numbing her body, a little. She forced herself back onto her feet, and could only manage a sigh in response. “Lyall…”

“There’s no need to explain it to me,” it was a little sad, the way he smiled, but there was no artifice. “We all knew, I think. Not to sound arrogant, but I think I knew before the rest of them did. There’s no need to deny that what you feel for Asha is love – I loved you the moment I set eyes on you, so don’t think for a moment that your feelings are anything less than they are.”

Jacquotte stared. Both had realized that Lyall had never spoken his feelings aloud, before.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“You’re clever, Jacquotte, you know there isn’t a need to be sorry,” sitting up was a struggle, but he managed it, meeting her eyes with nothing less than good will. “You can’t help my feelings, any more than I could change yours. Wishing for them to change-… That’s wrong, is it not? What you have a _chance_ at having, that’s worth everything. I don’t ever want to be the man who stands in the way of that. I’m content, at your side. I’ll help, however I can. I will be _damned_ if I don’t see this through with you, rescue Asha, put her back in your arms, or dance at your wedding.”

Unconsciously, she had begun to flush a deep red, and an uncharacteristically girlish laugh escaped her. “Women cannot wed other women.”

“Well, they ought to.”

She laughed harder, and Lyall’s lips twitched, chuckles eventually bubbling past his lips, too.

“…Thank you,” she managed to say when her giggles died down, sobering. “This time I’ve spent feeling like there was no one I could trust, recently – I should have remembered, you’ve been there for me since the day we met. I appreciate everything.”

“You are welcome,” there was still a mite of sadness behind his smile, but there was nothing forced about his expression. “That said, I won’t stand for this business of pushing yourself to the brink. For my sake, as well – I feel like I could fall asleep right here, and it’s hardly comfortable.”

She was blatantly more reluctant to accept those words, and Lyall prodded, sighing, “You’re of no help to Asha if you’ve killed yourself, forgetting to be human.”

“I suppose you’re right,” begrudgingly, Jacquotte exhaled and drew herself up further. “I’ll gather some firewood. We’ll rest, for a short while. How long have we been riding, since we last paused?”

“Over a day and a night,” Lyall replied wearily. “I think we ought to be dead, right now. At the very least, we’ve abused the horses…”

A brief ripple of surprise went through her, the recognition at how long she’d been forging on feeling like a pebble being dropped into water, disrupting her obsessive thought. It only lasted briefly, though, as she trekked through the wood, not straying very far to relieve herself and begin collecting enough tinder to last them a short while.

They were at least three days away from Felicitie – maybe two, if she allowed for enough recuperation time to push them just as hard as she was before. If they stopped in Libsmene (or a town nearby it; there was no telling what sort of state it was in, now) they could regain their bearings again, then be ready to charge the castle. It had to be near enough to where they’d stopped…

What if Bron and Asha hadn’t arrived there, yet? The open act of hostility could get them thrown in prison…and then what? They wouldn’t be able to double back, and there would be no telling  _what_ had become of the pair of them.

The hypothetical questions she couldn’t seem to stop herself from asking were working her towards the brink of fury. She piled the dry wood high, upon returning to where Lyall was tending to the horses, striking up a flame using a flint from her pack.

Watching the flames didn’t make her feel any less aggravated, nor did the rations Lyall offered. She later found it, quite frankly, nothing short of miraculous that she managed to drift off to sleep at all; traveling so long and driving them so hard had put her on the brink of unconsciousness, and when she succumbed at last, she was half-propped against the scratchy bark of a tree.

 

***

 

 

_ Scene ii _

 

 

“ _Please, take me from this place._

_Rescue me, I long to see your face.”_

 

 

***

 

It had to be a bond stronger than Jacquotte had ever before been able to fathom. It was the only explanation her dreaming logic could provide as Asha melted her into embrace, kisses light and desperate being dappled across her jaw.

“I don’t understand,” she breathed and appreciated the warmth – not real, but comforting and enjoyable nonetheless. “How is it I have you here, with me? I’m imagining this, I know, but…”

“Why do you need to understand?” Asha pulled away, and looked pleadingly into her eyes. “Come to me. Come find me…”

“I’m trying,” she promised. As though in reward, Asha’s cuffs jingled as her hands ran down towards the other woman’s belt, followed by her eyes widening in confusion when Jacquotte caught them. The cold, shaking hands were carefully enveloped in larger, battle-callused ones.

“Let me reward you for my rescue,” the Maiden seemed perplexed.

“Perhaps after I’ve honestly saved you,” she tried to say it without feeling, and failed. “Why do you come to me in dreams?”

“Because you desire it.”

The answer was so simple, so direct, and not nearly explanatory enough. “Then is this what all people dream?” she felt her frustration rising again. “They dream of their deepest desires – that, I understand, but then why-…”

Asha shushed her, placing a finger against Jacquotte’s lips. She went still, and silent.

“That is precisely right,” she whispered. “In sleep, their greatest fantasies come true; little glimpses through the windows, into what those fantasies are like. Snippets of truth. You wish to desire… Desire to wish. You chase dreams,” Asha stretched, tilting her head enough to brush her lips over the other woman’s in a blend of affection and seduction. “You chase me.”

 

***

 

 

“ _Please, take me from this place._

_My prison should be only empty space.”_

 

 

***

 

“Snippets of truth,” Jacquotte repeated, and felt warmer.

“Never stop chasing me,” Asha said, arms entwining around her waist. “Would you like to know where I am?”

“You would tell me, and it will be the truth?”

‘ _Even though this is a dream?’_ went unspoken.

Gently, the Maiden smiled at her. Somehow, within her own subconscious, Jacquotte managed to miss how alike it was to the way Lyall had smiled.

“It was the truth last time, was it not?”

Jacquotte needed no further convincing than that.

 

***

 

 

“ _Please, take me from this place._

_These wants do damage I cannot erase.”_

  * Asha’s reprise.




 

 

***

 

_ Scene iii _

 

With the knowledge of where to find Asha ringing in her head, Jacquotte’s obsession continued to churn and press their journey on at tremendous speed, over the next two days. Their destination, they decided, was Pelidius – a small town only a stone’s throw away from the capital, so tiny and insignificant it was often passed over by any and every journeyman. They would likely not have an inn, Lyall had said, but so long as they could provide some food they would be stocked enough. Jacquotte refused to allow much time to rebuild strength, but Lyall had caught her at her weakest and made her swear they would stop long enough to eat, drink, and sleep for a short while.

By the time the small town was in sight, the horses had begun to huff and bray like weary donkeys and Jacquotte was forced to confess that resting would likely be in their best interests. There was no sign of bustle as they approached, but that was to be expected from such a small community at nightfall.

“With any luck, there will still be a shop open that still had bread to sell,” Jacquotte mused. “I suppose we ought to have been riding harder…”

“Any harder, and we’ll have broken these horses’ backs,” Lyall replied. “I must say, I’ll feel like a better man once these poor beasts have escaped us.”

“I’m sure…” Jacquotte trailed off, looking about at the modest homes lined up a fair ways from each other, trying to make out whether or not any of them had signs in front. To her dismay, she found there were none.

“Curse tight-knit neighbors,” she swore. “They probably know precisely who to go to for their meals and barter with each other… There doesn’t appear to be a single shop.”

“We could check in with whichever house has light coming through the windows,” Lyall suggested. “Ask which way to go, who to speak to.”

“I would rather not,” she griped. “We may no longer be a Quintet, but I still think we ought to do things my way.”

“The dishonest way?”

“Come now, ‘better’ isn’t always _dishonest_. Keep an eye out, someone’s bound to have a chicken coop… If it’ll placate you, we can leave something behind. An honest trade, that’s more like it, wouldn’t you say?”

“I can’t help but feel like you’re mocking me, but I agree,” Lyall craned his neck, perking his ears in a metaphorical sense for clucking or the rustle of feathers.

Oddly, it was still quiet, and the silence was beginning to unsettle them both.

It took a more thorough inspection for it to dawn on them that the entire town had been abandoned, as though everyone had packed what they could and run for the hills.

There was only a single house that was occupied, and certainly not by someone who belonged there. Bron looked a mess, her long blonde hair a mess around her face, loose from her typical braid, and a scant bit thinner than the last time Jacquotte had seen her. There were dark bags underneath her eyes, as though she hadn’t managed to sleep the whole night through in quite some time. Slumped over a table with cold, picked-clean bones in front of her, she straightened and looked ready to shove the heel of her boot into the intruders’ groins until she saw exactly who had shoved open the door.

“Jacq?” she questioned cautiously, as though uncertain whether or not her eyes were betraying her.

“A strange place to find you,” Jacquotte greeted, but unlike Bron she didn’t relax her fighting posture, hand still at rest by her the hilt of her saber.

“Nowhere else to go,” she confessed. “Libsmene is in ruins…everywhere else is being invaded by Midsuvians. Seems as though the entire country mobilized to war with Desidrius, and the only thing keeping the city of Felicitie safe is -”

“The Wishing Maiden,” Lyall finished solemnly.

“Yes,” Bron heaved a sigh, and then met Jacquotte’s glower. “I won’t ask for your forgiveness. I did what I thought was right, at the time. I will only say that I regret what I did. I am sorry.”

“I’m disgusted by you,” she replied bluntly.

She leaned over the table again, one large hand running through stringy hair. “I deserve that. It’d be foolish for me to talk about how it’s all gone wrong… Instead, tell me what your plan is. I’ll do anything I can to make this right.”

“There is no way to set things right,” Jacquotte dropped into the seat across from Bron, surprising them both. “We need to cut our losses, rescue Asha, and get out of Felicitie. Flee the continent altogether, if necessary. We’ll go as far as it takes, travel as often as need be. Do you agree?”

Bron looked up. “Only if you’re serious in that you think I should be going with you.”

“I have very few friends,” she folded her arms, looking somewhat like a stubborn child. “I’ll keep the ones I have, and we’ll see if the trust can be rebuilt as time goes on.”

When Bron swallowed, it was almost audible. With a quick nod, she inhaled sharply, “Right. As far as getting into Felicitie goes… I have my doubts that we’ll be able to. I’m not completely sure what Balthazar wished for-…”

“Balthazar?” Jacquotte interrupted, brows knitting. “Who-…?”

“The prince’s advisor. Apparently, he had been hoping for an opportunity to seize power for quite some time,” Bron explained dryly. “He’s a damn sight cleverer than the prince, and that’s a problem for us. I’m certain that he wished the Midsuvians wouldn’t invade the city, but without knowing how he phrased it, I worry there’s a chance we won’t be able to breach the city border, either.”

“There’s nothing else for it but to try,” Jacquotte indicated for Lyall to come forward. “Do you have a map of the city?”

“Unfortunately not,” he took a seat by her, “but I remember well enough. It’s a straight shot down the main road, towards the castle. Most paths lead there, it seems. I suppose they thought it was so peaceful there that defensibility never came into question…”

“Which makes me wonder if he’s wished for Felicitie’s safety at all,” Jacquotte articulated slowly as she processed the thought. “The city has always been a place of peace, since it was built. If only we had access to the records in Libsmene…”

“Do you think it’s a wish from long ago, still in effect?” one of Bron’s eyebrows lifted in inquiry.

“Perhaps so. In which case – we walked in easily enough before, so we should have no trouble doing so now.”

“That’s a large ‘if’,” Bron countered.

“There are many of those, I’ve come to find,” she groused in return. “Still, it feels like it could be true, doesn’t it? And I’d rather plan around the idea that we can _get_ to the castle, rather than stewing about how we have to give up, here.”

“That’s fair,” Bron amended, and whether it was because she genuinely agreed or wanted to avoid an argument was unclear. “So, then… We get inside the city, presumably met by lawmen. What then?”

“We fight when we have to and run when we can, of course,” Jacquotte put her feet up on the table. “We’ve handled situations flavored like this before. Sieges against numbers that would make men twice my size wince, isn’t that right?”

“With a healthy dose of the unexpected around the corner, this time,” Lyall pointed out.

“We take everything as it comes. We’ll manage,” she was firm, gaze growing steely.

“Alright then – we reach the castle. Then?”

“Asha is being held in the fallen prince’s bedchamber,” Jacquotte’s feet dropped and she leaned forward over the table. “That’s found high up, second to the top floor. I know the way.”

“How?” Bron looked almost startled. With the devious air of a gossip, Lyall folded his hands and dragged his chair forward a little.

“She’s been having _visitations_ in her dreams,” he began, but was shortly cut off by Jacquotte cuffing the back of his head.

“The fact that I know is all that’s important,” she grumbled. “Escaping is going to be the tricky part…”

“If getting out alive is a concern, I think Asha would prefer we wish for it,” Bron hesitated to say it, and it was clear by the way the words seemed to drag themselves out of her. “It will be the last one she ever needs to grant, Jacquotte.”

Her expression had grown a tad wooden, but she was nodding in rancorous agreement. “I suppose that can be our last resort if we wind up with no other choice.”

“So, when do we leave?”

“Jacquotte’s agreed to eat and rest before we take any suicidal risks,” Lyall gave her a meaningful look, as though to say, _‘You haven’t gotten out of that agreement.’_ She scowled, but nodded once.

“For a few hours,” she amended. “We eat – if there’s anything even _like_ a solid meal left in this town – sleep, and attack before dawn. The city’s only an hour away, by horse; we can get there while it’s still dark and arrive by cover of the night.”

“I’m all for that.”

Bron was more aware of what Pelidius had to offer, and by the time they’d dined and lay down to rest for as long as the broken Quintet’s leader would let them, the moon was ascending up over the horizon, and Jacquotte’s busy head wouldn’t let her eyes close.


	12. Chapter XI

_ Chapter XI; Act III, scene iv _

 

 

There were several hours to go before dawn. The city walls that used to give off an impression of mundane welcome seemed strangely imposing, now, the shadows cast by streetlamps flickering and waving with the flames as though trying to wave them off in warning. They couldn’t know how dangerous Jacquotte was feeling – adrenaline pumping through her, she felt only too-ready to take on anything they could possibly put in her way.

Bron was set atop one of the horses, looking a fair sight better than she did when first they found her. It was as though purpose had invigorated her, renewing her wholly. Lyall simply seemed unburdened for the first time in years, or even since the day he and Jacquotte had first crossed paths, going so far as to say that he would die a free man if battle didn’t favor him. That had earned him another gentle, but stiff, whack upside his head.

She had expected all to be quiet, upon their arrival. Certainly there was no reason for any man, woman, or child to be awake at such a time of night – too early to warrant work, too late to be drinking.

Unfortunately, she was wrong.

There was raucous laughter echoing all the way from the taverns, couples wandering the streets arm in arm – or in some of the more brazen cases, they had stopped their wandering and taken giggling detours, contact not quite so innocent.

“I’m not certain whether this makes things easier or more difficult,” Bron observed the merriment with a quirked eyebrow and mild repulsion. “What will we do?”

“Proceed as planned,” Jacquotte dismounted from the horse, drawing her sword just to show the hilt. “I can take a violent drunk or twenty, if it comes to it.”

“Let’s hope it isn’t going to come to it,” Lyall followed suit. “Although – isn’t that a lawman over there, with that girl…?”

“Not our business to question, only to take advantage,” Jacquotte let the saber drop back into its sheath. “Now help me stand.”

“What?”

“Help me stand,” she repeated more insistently, and once both Bron and Lyall’s arms were supporting her, she let most of her weight fall. Every step forward was somewhat of a struggle as they lugged her along, their own steps forced to drag in the process. Jacquotte burst into giggles, and the other two sent each other quizzical looks over her head.

“You, there!”

The lawman had been distracted from his lady friend for a moment, it seemed, pointing an accusing white-gloved finger at the three. Lyall felt his insides freeze, but the lawman had begun to laugh as well, slurring, “Yes, you, my good man! You need another drink!”

“’Ere, ‘ere,” Jacquotte giggled, and he caught on at last.

“Wouldn’t care t’break the law!” he called back. “Ordered back to the tavern, am I?”

“Yes! You’ve got _strict orders_ ,” pulling his laughing lady close, the lawman gave her a smug sort of grin as though he’d honestly asserted his power. Subtly, Jacquotte’s pace picked up, though she kept up the appearance of her inebriated stagger.

“So we act like drunks and limp the entire way to the castle? May take us a while,” Bron mumbled.

“Only until we’re out of sight ‘f the lawmen,” Jacquotte slurred, maintaining the charade; it appeared that anyone within earshot didn’t care for the words, only seeing them precisely as she’d hoped they would. “If we go quickly enough, it won’t take ‘s long as you think.”

“Very well, if you say so…”

The main road had several twists and turns, but for the most part, it was the most direct path towards the castle, only splintering off towards other places of importance – the marketplaces, the docks and traders’ stalls. Especially crowded (not shockingly) were any of the streets that led to places of leisure, and as they passed Jacquotte marveled at how  _everyone_ seemed to have thrown away all of their obligations. They were throwing themselves to pleasures mindlessly, creating excitement where there had been none – where were people getting their food? Their money?

‘ _Is there any sense if purpose_ _ **left**_ _in these people?!’_

She had thought far too soon.

When they drew near enough to the castle, the aura of sobriety hit all at once; there were lawmen standing guard. They were not stock-still and alert, the way Jacquotte had always known them to be; they were fidgety, restless, drawing their weapons at distant sounds with twitchy grins.

She knew that lust for action well; she’d lived it.

Straightening her back and pulling away from Bron and Lyall, she shook her head and reached for her saber, “There will be no way past those ones without a fight.”

“It doesn’t look that way, does it,” the man heaved his bag forward and drew out the weapons he’d thought to bring – Grete’s narrow daggers. They caught Jacquotte’s eye immediately, and there was a moment in which she looked utterly lost. She recovered quickly, though, focused on what was to come.

The three of them had been spotted, eyes specifically landing on Bron. The lawmen who had been pursuing her, and allowed her to slip from their grasp – every single one of them, upwards of ten men, were standing between them and the Maiden.

Jacquotte didn’t allow herself the luxury of anxiety. Battle-ready, she flew forwards, her charge breaking the anticipation the lawmen were building – scarlet painted the air, then ran across the ground, her sword slashing across an unguarded neck.

What ensued was too fast to follow, and too slow to be a blur. The lawmen were all so frenetic in their attempts to be the one to slay the enemy that their coordination fell to ashes. It became a brawl, swords slashing every which way, the only unity seeming to be that everyone wanted to kill.

Bron was shouting, behind her – three of them had ganged up on her, their swords clanging against her armor (too light, too breakable, she wasn’t covered up enough) as they were brought down on all sides. Jacquotte speared the lawman she was dueling, running him straight through, whipping her head towards the cry.

Bron had caught one of her attackers and was using him like a human battering ram, shoving him into the other two and barreling forward, his body now slack with unconsciousness. “Go!” she yelled, “I can keep them busy!”

Jacquotte nearly missed what she was saying. She was staring at the blood trickling from the corner of Bron’s mouth – had she bitten down, or was the injury worse than she wanted to believe? With the lawman’s body blocking her view, she couldn’t tell how badly her friend was injured.

“No time, Jacq,” she warned loudly, and kept barreling towards the men nearest to her; she was right. They hadn’t the time to deliberate.

“Lyall!” she called sharply, running for the castle gates. She didn’t look back to see if he was following, knowing that he would be. She heaved the doors open for the two of them to get through, shoving it closed again with a resounding _boom_.

Both needed a moment to catch their breath, but Lyall was the only one willing to take that second to breathe. Already, Jacquotte was taking the route she’d murmured to herself over and over again, bolting across the entrance hall towards the spiraling staircase.

“Inhuman,” he remarked breathlessly, forcing his aching limbs to carry him after her.

Climbing all the way up to the very top floors was putting a throbbing tear in her side, feeling as though she were splitting at the seams. Every time the pain threatened to register, though, her mind’s eye fought back with a vivid image of Asha. How she looked, when she was doubled over and clutching at her heart as it stopped functioning and resumed, beating at three times the pace it was supposed to. Agony like that, Jacquotte would never know, and couldn’t wrap her head around – a simple split in her side was of miniscule consequence.

“Jacquotte, wait,” Lyall wheezed. “Stop, for just a second. I won’t survive, if we fight again, like _this_ …”

As reluctant as she was to do so, she let herself stop, collapsing with her back to the wall. Lyall gripped at his knees, blowing out air that he had been holding in his lungs without realizing, glancing up after a moment.

“…You’re bleeding…!”

“So I am,” her voice was faintly hoarse, and indeed, blood had begun seeping through the wound across her chest. “It’s only a scratch.”

“We ought to patch that up-…”

“It’s not necessary, and there isn’t time,” Jacquotte snapped. “If Asha falls out of our grasp when Bron may be out there _dying_ -…!”

She didn’t let herself finish, the stillness the followed felt like boulders were being strapped to their shoulders. Quietly, Lyall righted himself, and resumed the urgent trek up the staircase. Jacquotte unwrapped her hand from around her aching side, running up the steps as well. Every smack of her soles against stone was a second, ticking away, pounding thoughts into her head like a hammer against a nail.

Bron could have sacrificed herself, in an attempt to make things right…

Asha could be out of their grasp forever…

It could all be for nothing…

They almost burst onto the proper floor, Jacquotte running towards the bedroom she knew to belong to the former prince. Fist banging on the door, she yelled, “Asha! Are you in there?!”

For too long, there was quiet. Nearly frantic, she hit the door harder, until Lyall seized her wrist.

“They probably have her deafened,” he sighed in frustration. “We’ll have to find another -…”

“Jacquotte?”

Her voice was muffled and as soft as ever, but distinct. Jacquotte nearly pressed herself flat against the door, sighing in relief. “Asha…!”

“Are you alright?” Lyall raised his own voice, scrambling to inspect the locked door. With a scowl, he shook his head. “It doesn’t look like it’ll pick easily…”

“Can you unlock the door?” Jacquotte felt as though if she were any closer, she would be able to touch Asha, or melt through the solid wood.

“No,” she answered back, “there is only one key, in Balthazar’s possession.”

“Very well then,” nudging Lyall out of the way, Jacquotte dropped to one knee and began rummaging through the tools kept in her bloodied belt. “I’ll pick the lock, it’s a skill of mine…”

“I know.”

Breathing out, Jacquotte glanced back at Lyall and pointed towards the end of the hallway. “Keep watch for lawmen or worse, I will not take long with this.”

He didn’t question what she meant by ‘or worse’, simply taking off to do as instructed.

Clenching two slender, twisted bits of metal between her teeth, she took her favorite in hand and slotted it inside, beginning to work on coaxing the lock to open. All the while, Asha spoke, voice as strong as she could make it.

“However long it has been – a week, I’ve spent waiting, is that right? It’s all such a blur… There were times I couldn’t recall much of anything, even my own name. Just my purpose, the fact that I can never be more than this, but you make me feel as though that could change. It’s as though you might set me free, Jacquotte, for _good_ , and when I realized that…I dreamt of you. Isn’t that strange? I dreamt of you, like a solid vision – you told me that you were coming for me, to keep at least one ear alert for the sound of my voice, even though there was risk. You promised no harm would come to me, and I believed you, then. I believe in you now, Jacquotte, I truly do – you aren’t like Willem, you love me, don’t you…? You love me enough to do what needs to be done, to save me from this abysmal place…”

There was a loud  _click_ , and Jacquotte jolted the bedroom door open.

“Trouble…!”

Lyall’s warning seemed to come too late. He leapt back, but a figure was already rounding the corner – Caietanus, with a sword drawn and in the stance of someone who knew how to use it in play. He grimaced upon seeing them, ducking the thin dagger Lyall hurled at him; the metal clanged and skittered over the floor.

Asha almost fell, stumbling back when the door was pushed open. It dawned on Jacquotte that she must have been doing exactly what she had been, flush against the barrier between them, and the moment it was gone she all but collapsed into Jacquotte’s arms.

“My Lord!” Caietanus bellowed. “ _My Lord…!_ ”

“He can say little else,” Asha murmured, hands moving to the sides of Jacquotte’s face. The pose was strikingly similar to the dream she’d had – so much so, she was questioning whether or not it was real. Only when the true, clean warmth of Asha’s lips were pressed to hers did she allow herself to believe it.

 

***

 

 

“ _A century, or more, ago,_

_Oh, the timing feels obscure…_

_You looked upon me with clear eyes –_

_A girl untouched by all your lies._

_You grabbed at me, your Wishing Well,_

_And began to abuse what was pure._

_Tore your tool until she fled,_

_\- Of all those things, I am sure._ _”_

 

 

***

 

“While there’s still time,” she pulled away, and begged with her eyes. “Please, Jacquotte, make a wish.”

When she looked at Jacquotte that way, there was very little she wouldn’t do at her request, her sense of ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ be damned.

“I wish-…”

“ _I wish_ …!” a loud snarl interrupted. “I wish the Wishing Maiden is never able to leave this castle!”

As though stabbed, Asha cried out and curled into herself, Jacquotte abruptly needing to struggle to help keep her on her feet. Lyall was still being held at the point of a sword by Caietanus, but Balthazar had joined them. In the time she had last seen him – though, she could only recall his face dimly – he looked younger, healthier, as though every care in the world had fallen away. Even contorted with anger, the look of him was not displeasing, even handsome.

“I wish,” he hissed, “that _no wish_ I have spoken can be undone by you, the Maiden who grants them. I wish that the lock to your prison’s door can never again be picked open!”

As the words rolled off his tongue, they seemed to whip Asha with the brutality of someone beating her, until it seemed she would not be able to bear it much longer. Jacquotte buckled under her thrashing, the Maiden toppling them both to the floor; the pressure on her bleeding chest felt like being struck by lightning, and in tandem, the pair of them screamed.

 

***

 

 

“ _I’m a seeping poison of your own creation,_

_The dying bane of a naïve nation._

_What remains is to live on,_

_I’m afraid all hope is gone.”_

 

 

***

 

They were trapped, effectively cornered like a fox surrounded by vicious hounds. Lyall made to move towards the two women, having gone pale, but Caietanus was quick to remind him that there was nowhere he could run. The tip of the blade rammed through Lyall’s foot, the prince having dropped the point and jabbed viciously; a strangled yell and curse preceded his full weight hitting the floor, grabbing at the injury in shock.

‘ _He’s ensured Asha will be his, forever…and Lyall and I are going to die here.’_

There was only one thing left that she could think to do, and brokenly, the words were escaping her before she had time to think them through.

“I wish Asha had never been the Wishing Maiden…!”

The smug look on Balthazar’s face dropped, and every pair of eyes darted towards the young woman in Jacquotte’s arms.

Slowly, white shirt stained red, Asha struggled to hold herself up with shaking arms. For a moment, Jacquotte swore she could  _see_ her heartbeat – it was slowing, in her chest, beating once… Twice.

No more.

 

***

 

 

“ _I brush’d my hands of the rubble new,_

_What I brought upon my peers._

_You’d suspect a tragic aftermath,_

_But instead I just stood back and laughed._

_You robbed my will and hushed my voice,_

_And used me up throughout the years._

_Now that I can give no more,_

_You shame and blame me for my tears._

 

_I’m a seeping poison of your own creation,_

_The fading bane of a naïve nation._

_My thanks for what you’ve done for me;_

_For in dying, I am free._ ”

-          Asha's farewell. 

 

 

***

 

Expression thrown into bitter relief, Asha gave Jacquotte one last sad smile, lips forming the words,  _“Thank you,”_ before she seemed to disappear altogether.


	13. Epilogue

_ Epilogue; Act III, scene v _

 

 

What began as an undeniable truth faded into legend, which eventually dwindled until it was only passing rumor.

It was said there was once a great Kingdom, called Felicitie, built upon a lovely shore.

It was said that this fabled kingdom had been a place of great peace, until the fair young woman known as ‘the Wishing Maiden’ was set free. From the victims of one want to victims of many other wants, those with power failed to find a balance to offer their people, and Felicitie was torn apart by strife.

It was said that, with no hope lying ahead to tempt them onwards, humankind fell.

And then, the stories ceased to be told, for there was no one left to tell them.

 

***

 

 

“ _If I could have any wish…_

_My life would be much more than this._

_I do not dream; I only miss_

_The dearest wish that I had.”_

-          The reprise.


End file.
